


The Six Steps of Courtship

by emptycel



Series: First Steps [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Bonding, Casefic but the focus is the relationship, Courtship, Frottage, Kissing, Knotting, Largely fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptycel/pseuds/emptycel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't hold any love for his omega status. However, that doesn't stop him from going undercover and joining on online dating site to try and find the person responsible for a string of vicious omega homicides. </p><p>It should have been easy, open and shut. </p><p>He just didn't expect to meet an alpha named John Watson. </p><p> </p><p>And enter the six steps of courtship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Шесть стадий ухаживаний. (The Six Steps of Courtship)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411106) by [Merla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merla/pseuds/Merla)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Шесть стадий ухаживаний. (The Six Steps of Courtship)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411106) by [Merla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merla/pseuds/Merla)



> Here we go, brand new fic. I'm more just playing with relationships than anything else, but let me know what you think.

_1)Sustain_

_2)Protect_

_3)Shelter_

_4)Scent_

_5)Mark_

_6)Bond_

 

 

_Disguise is the most effective way of obtaining information_ , Sherlock reminded himself through gritted teeth. He only had to bear this ridiculousness for a few weeks in order to track a pattern and catch a serial killer. 

 

But good Lord, was it ridiculous.

 

He adjusted his fake glasses and the simple, grey waist-length jacket he normally would not have been caught dead in. He understood Lestrade's insistence that he did  _something_ to alter his appearance, but he couldn't help but be annoyed that his costume wasn't even  _remotely_ fun. 

 

He checked the time on his cell phone before deciding that it would alright if he showed up a little early. After all, his alter ego was supposed to be eager to find a mate. Or at least not abhor the idea.

 

Sherlock wanted to vomit.

 

The restaurant hosting this stupid social event was close to home and easy to find. He located the coordinator, a middle aged beta woman (two cats, one child at university, no husband), and gave her his alias.

 

“Scott Williams?” he said, letting the pitch of his voice raise slightly at the end, as though he was unsure if he was supposed to be here.

 

She smiled reassuringly and checked his name off a list. He scanned it for half a second and promptly memorized the name of everyone in attendance.

 

“You're a little early,” she said, flashing a smile that was probably supposed to be knowing or conspiratorial or some other such nonsense. “Don't worry, you aren't the only one whose anxious to get things started. We've booked that back end of the restaurant, you can go take a seat or start mingling if you like.

 

He smiled his false gratitude and pretended to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

 

He wondered what 'Scott Williams' would do in a social situation and decided that he would probably try to find another omega and try to start some sort of nervous conversation about 'trying to find a mate these days' or 'babies.'

 

He located a rather depressed looking young omega girl and did just that.

 

“Would you believe that I'm too nervous to start chatting up the alphas?” he started as he joined her.

 

She smiled, looking slightly more upbeat now that she wasn't standing alone in the corner of a social gathering. “Same,” she said, offering a hesitant smile. She held out a hand. “I'm Samantha.”

 

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said. “I'm Scott. Have you been to one of these...things...before?”

 

She nodded, looking a little depressed at the idea. “Yeah, I haven't had any luck yet.”

 

“This is my first,” Sherlock said, trying to sound sheepish about it. “I've given up on the traditional ways, and going out to bars and chatting someone up seemed too risky, so...”

 

“Dating services,” Samantha supplied. “Yeah, I know that story.”

 

Sherlock wasn't surprised. That was the story of any omega that had to resort to these organized events to find a mate.

 

' _Matchmaker,' your online source for finding true love._

 

Sherlock had shut the computer in disgust when Lestrade e-mailed him the link to the dating site.

 

Thank God it was a serial killer. Otherwise, it would not be worth it even the tiniest bit.

 

“I'm surprised you're unbonded,” Samantha said as more alphas and omegas filtered in. “I mean, you're young and attractive...” she realized that Sherlock was looking at her with an annoyed expression. “I mean, I'm sorry! You know what? Not my business.”

 

Sherlock quickly schooled his facial features into something warmer. “Oh, no worries. I've just had some bad luck with some really awful alphas in the past.”

 

“I see,” she said sympathetically.

 

Sherlock was bored of Samantha.

 

Well, Sherlock had been bored of Samantha the moment he looked at her. She was a bottle blonde with a pet Siberian Husky and an unhealthy addiction to reality television. She also appeared to suffer from an undiagnosed, but mild, form of bipolar disorder. Unless she had a mood shift in the middle of the evening, she wasn't going to be of any entertainment at all. And shifts weren't usually sudden, so the chances were very small.

 

Sherlock decided to talk to the alphas.  
  


The tiny omega instinct inside of him was screaming that walking into a crowd of unbonded alphas alone was a very bad idea, but Sherlock cheerfully told that tiny omega instinct to shut the fuck up. How else was he going to find a serial killer if not speak to the suspects?

 

….......

 

They were all annoying.

 

Every single one of them.

 

And none of them looked like serial killers. None of them even looked particularly threatening. He sincerely doubted that the sixty year old alpha intent on making it through the evening in a state of constant intoxication was capable of five vicious omega homicides.

 

He wondered if it would be possible to use a plastic fork to kill himself when said sixty year old man grabbed at Sherlock's arse.

 

_Just a few days_ , he reminded himself.  _Just a few days to find a pattern, to increase the suspect pool to a reasonable enough size to try and figure this out. Tonight was a bust, but tomorrow night might yield something useful._

 

He had never hated his gender more than when his fellow omegas started talking about their dreams of children and pretty homes with white picket fences.

 

Sherlock had been fighting that stereotype since he first presented and these idiots seemed to be doing everything they could to reinforce it.

 

He wondered how long he was expected to stay before getting the hell out of there was socially acceptable.

 

He checked his watch and cursed quietly but colorfully when he saw that only twenty minutes had passed since he'd stopped talking to Samantha.

 

After deciding he would leave after he deduced everyone at least once, Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of loud bickering joining the alpha/omega gathering in the back.

 

“Harry, I thought I made myself clear--”

 

“You _did_ make yourself clear, Johnny, I just didn't listen.” 

 

“\--that I do _not_ need you to interfere in my love life!” 

 

“Well, you're not doing anything about it, so someone has to.”

 

“Jesus, Harry! You said we'd have a nice quiet dinner and then you drag me to this ridiculous--”

 

“It's not ridiculous! I met Clara through Matchmaker.”

 

The pair, a younger brother and older sister, obviously, quickly became the focus of the awkwardly chatting group. Both were short, stocky, blonde, and alpha. The beta supervisor trotted over quickly, a clipboard in hand.

 

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking a tad ruffled.

 

“John Watson,” the sister said, pushing her brother into the fray. “I'm just dropping him off. I'll come to collect you in a couple hours, Johnny!”

 

“I can just get a cab!” the brother, John, called after her retreating form.

 

“See you soon!”

 

John sighed, ran a hand through his short blonde hair, and moved toward an available seat, supporting his weight on a cane as he attempted to maneuver with a heavy limp.

 

John sat down and conversation resumed amongst the others. He obviously wasn't interested in finding a mate, but a rather unattractive red haired woman in her late twenties was desperately attempting to flirt with him. He kept shutting her down, but she kept protesting.

 

Sherlock searched his memories from the evening before he found her.

 

Omega. Single, of course. Rejected by nearly every desperate alpha here. Never been in a serious relationship. Biology and anatomy major, currently unemployed. Owns ferrets. Has unhealthy obsession with ferrets. Possible reason for not having had a relationship. Name? Irrelevant.

 

But Sherlock didn't like her bothering John. Couldn't she leave the man in peace? He really didn't want to be here.

 

She finally gave up and John was alone again.

 

He was immediately accosted by a cute if over energetic young man in his early twenties. John looked interested for all of seven seconds when the young man said something that made John look extremely uncomfortable.

 

The young man just got out of a serious relationship and was using Matchmaker to try and get back at his ex. He was bonded but trying to dissolve it and complaining about...oh, his pregnancy. Well, no wonder John was uncomfortable. The poor man didn't want to be here in the first place, much less get involved in such a messy situation.

 

And what was an unbonded, pregnant omega doing out unprotected? The idiot was going to get himself kidnapped.

 

The young man finally left and John breathed a visible sigh of relief.

 

Sherlock decided that he would pity the man and ward off other advances by taking shelter in John's apathy for the rest of the evening. Anything was better than being in the clutches of Grandpa Grabby Hands and the other, more obnoxious, alphas in attendance.

 

“Scott,” he said, sitting down. “Scott Williams. You want to be here just as much as I do, so let's pretend that we're engrossed in conversation so everyone leaves us the hell alone.” Sherlock cast a significant glance at the red head and the pregnant guy, who had moved on to seeking comfort from some of the other omegas.

 

John managed a small smile.

 

“John Watson,” he said, fiddling with his cane as he sat.

 

Sherlock noticed that he sat with his weight perfectly distributed, not favoring either side by either necessity or habit.

 

Interesting.

 

He afforded John Watson a closer examination.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, annoyed that he couldn't make the distinction on his own.

 

John didn't flinch or jump. Instead, he froze. The look in his eye wasn't panicked. It was calculating.

 

 _Very_ interesting.

 

“Afghanistan,” John said, cocking his head to the side slightly. “I'm sorry, but how did you--”

 

“Did you work A and E before you deployed, or did you develop your skills by necessity?”

 

“Did my sister make me a bloody profile on that sodding website?” John demanded. “Because I swear to God--”

 

“If she has, I haven't read it,” Sherlock replied, affecting a bored attitude. “I'm simply very good at seeing that sort of thing.”

 

John laughed without humor. “Are you going to tell me that you're psychic? I think I'd rather sit alone than listen to--”

 

“I'm not psychic, I simply observe,” Sherlock interrupted, mildly annoyed. “You'd be surprised at what people give away about themselves simply by existing. I can read your military history in your haircut and suntan, and your medical history in your hands and habits. I also know you like dogs but are uncomfortable with cats.”

 

“Alright, how could you possibly--”

 

“Dog hair on your left sleeve. You're left handed, so you were stroking it. For quite a while, considering the amount of dander on your cuff. Your pant legs have traces of cat hair, as does your right forearm. The cat was affectionate with you, as cats are with all people who do not like them, and you were constantly pushing it aside with your arm. However, you never insisted on its removal. Therefore, you like dogs and are just mildly uncomfortable with cats. Not difficult.”

 

John turned away and let out a soft huff of laughter.

 

“Unbelievable. Amazing, but unbelievable. Yeah, my sister's got a dog and a cat. I'm fairly certain that Checkers is actually the devil's lackey, but I have no proof.” 

 

“Checkers?”

 

“My sister named a cat Checkers.”

 

“No wonder its in league with Satan.”

 

That startled a laugh out of John, a surprisingly high pitched little giggle infectious enough to force a deep chuckle out of Sherlock.

 

“You're not bad, Scott,” John said with a grin. “So, do you come to things very often?”

 

Sherlock's good mood shattered. “No,” he said shortly. “I don't have any interest in finding a mate. My brother insisted in a way similar to your sister.” He adjusted his lie effortlessly, not wanting to give John any encouragement.

 

John looked a little taken back at his sudden harsh tone. “Just chatting,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Though that _did_ sound like a bloody awful pick up line. Don't worry, I have no interest in a mate, either. Bloody annoying that everyone expects me to have a little housewife and seven pups by now.”

 

“Trust me, it's more annoying that everyone expects you to _be_ a housewife with your eighth whelp on the way,” Sherlock said bitterly. “At least you can get a job outside of childcare.” 

 

“So long as the job is appropriately masculine,” John muttered. “Being a soldier worked well enough, but it's hell to try and convince a hospital to hire me. Alphas aren't horribly welcome in caretaker roles.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“So, is that what you do? Childcare?”

 

Sherlock almost told the truth before he remembered that his stupid fake profile did indeed say he was a primary school teacher.

 

“I teach third years,” he corrected himself before he ruined his entire undercover role. “They aren't as annoying as they could be, but it's hardly what I envisioned myself doing before I presented.”

 

“What did you want to be?”

 

“A pirate.”

 

John laughed. “Yeah, I could see why that might be an issue. You know, disregarding the fact that they aren't pirates anymore.”

 

“Of course there's pirate. Why, in the seas surrounding--”

 

“I meant the traditional sort of pirate, but you're right,” John interrupted before Sherlock could dive into the fascinating history of piracy.

 

The beta coordinator returned. “Why don't you all take a seat and decide what you want to eat? A waiter will be by to take your orders in a few minutes.” 

 

Sherlock and John were already seated, but John took the opportunity to glance at his menu.

 

“Are you going to any more of these?” John asked, examining the pasta selection with interest. “Harry's signed me up for the next month of events.”

 

“My name is registered for the Friday and Saturday night gatherings, as well as a few Sundays. As to whether I plan on attending, it depends on how closely my brother watches me.” Actually, Sherlock was going to attend all of them to try and hunt a serial killer, but that didn't fit in with his story well.

 

“Jeez, what is your brother, the head of government intelligence?”

 

“Yes.”

 

John laughed. Sherlock didn't.

 

“Aren't you eating?” John asked, nodding at Sherlock's menu.

 

“No.”

 

John gave him a disbelieving look and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you really need to watch your figure,” he said sarcastically. “Seriously, you should eat. I can see your ribs through your jacket.”

 

“Not possible.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Sherlock sighed and picked up the menu, choosing something at random, which he then ordered as soon as the waiter came around.

 

Then he cursed himself as he realized ordering food had trapped him here for another hour at least, if he participated in all the social conventions that come along with a shared meal.

 

At least John wasn't the most horrible alpha in the group.

 

He also wasn't a serial killer, though, which made him considerably less important.

 

But speaking of horrible alphas....

 

A rather loud and annoying man whose mate-less status was explained solely through his obnoxious attitude sat himself down next to Sherlock and began making every lewd comment he possibly could. Not to mention several remarks about what, in his opinion, an omega's proper place is.

 

“Nice to have someone else cook the dinner, right?” he said to Sherlock when the food arrived. “I'm sure even without a mate you do your fair share of cooking and cleaning.”

 

“I really don't,” Sherlock said, sincerely and flatly.

 

“Why don't you come back with me tonight, beautiful? I can show you a thing or two about--”

 

“HEY SCOTT,” John said, interrupting overly loudly and with an extraordinarily false note to his voice. “HEY REMEMBER THAT INTERESTING THING WE WERE JUST TALKING ABOUT?”

 

Sherlock turned to John, doing everything he could to fight a ridiculous lop sided grin that threatened to crack through his composure.

 

“WHY YES JOHN,” Sherlock said, mocking John by being equally obvious. “I DO. LET US RESUME THE CONVERSATION, GOOD SIR.”

 

John wasn't as good at hiding his reactions and instead had to laugh into a glass of water as he pretended to take a drink.

 

Sherlock turned his body fully away from the obnoxious alpha, effectively cutting off any attempts of conversation from anyone but John.

 

“When can I leave without offending _everyone_?” Sherlock asked. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't care if he was offending anybody, but 'Scott' was supposed to be making friends.

 

“Well, I'd be offended if you left now,” John managed around his giggles. “After all, we were about to resume conversation about that interesting thing we were just talking about.” John dropped the volume of his speech slightly. “Honestly, if Douche-y McArseFace over there actually finished his sentence, I'm fairly certain I would have decked him in the throat. Not exactly a mystery as to why he's unbonded.”

 

“I appreciate the gesture, but there's no need to defend my honor,” Sherlock said, a tad harshly, on the defensive whenever someone feels the need to stick up for him based on gender.

 

John waved it aside. “Oh, I'm sure. I have no doubts as to your ability to take care of yourself, Scott. The only reason I interrupted was solely so I didn't get arrested for assault.”

 

Sherlock was surprised on how much it annoyed him that John knew him as 'Scott.'

 

He rather liked John. And John seemed to like 'Scott' enough that he might be able to tolerate Sherlock. Sherlock wondered if he should tell John the truth, bring him into the investigation. It would useful to have a doctor or a soldier around, and with John he could have _both_. It was awfully convenient.

 

Sherlock decided he would tell John everything. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight he needed to keep up a facade, to smile and socialize, to make plans to see people again the next night. Later, he would introduce himself to John properly.

 

Then the rest of Sherlock's brain caught up with his thoughts.

 

_What?_

 

Was he actually planning on starting a partnership? Sherlock “Alone is what protects me” Holmes was about to do something that could potentially backfire horribly.

 

_Why?_

 

He nearly left right then, intent on examining his motives and these weird...feelings...of camaraderie or friendship or some other such nonsense, but right then John smiled at him and giggled his surprisingly little giggle and he decided that it couldn't hurt to stay a little longer.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Alpha and Omega Courtship:_

 

_Step One: The Alpha provides sustenance to the Omega. If the Omega accepts, courtship begins. If the Omega rejects the offering, courtship ends immediately._

 

_Step Two: The Alpha proves that he or she can protect the Omega. Success continues the courtship._

 

_Step Three: The Omega offers comfort or shelter to the Alpha. If accepted, courtship is hereafter monogamous. The Alpha's claims on other Omegas are relinquished._

 

_Step Four: Alpha scents the Omega. Courtship may still be ended, but the Omega is now officially marked with the Alpha's scent and is considered the property of the Alpha._

 

_Step Five: The Omega presents to the Alpha. If the Alpha accepts and marks the Omega with his or her bite, the courtship has been completed and will be consummated during the Omega's heat._

 

_Step Six: The Omega's heat is triggered by hormones transferred through the Alpha's bite. The Alpha must now claim and bond the Omega before another Alpha interferes. Interfering Alpha's can complete the bond without having completed the courting process; however, the bond will not be nearly as strong. Bonding occurs during mating, when the Omega is marked and knotted during completion. Bonds are essentially permanent, dissolving one brings great health risks to the Omega in question._

 

… _......._

 

 

John practically floated home. Harry kept casting him suspicious glances as she drove, but she didn't say anything. She probably didn't want to jinx it.

 

And though he would die before he admitted it to her, she could tell he was happy he went. There was just no reason for her to know that he met a gorgeous, intelligent, funny, _single_ omega who was actually close to his age. 

 

Nope. The gloating just wouldn't be worth it.

 

Besides, it would be ridiculous for him to admit just how much he liked Scott after just one dinner. Especially considering how clearly Scott had stated that he wasn't actually looking for a mate.

 

But good Lord, he was something. Beautiful, intelligent, slightly twisted sense of humor...it was like someone had handpicked him for John.

 

John remembered Scott saying something about attending the function tomorrow night. He wandered around Harry's home, which was where he was staying until he could find a better flat, and pretended to be interested in other things for about an hour before jumping on his computer, going to the Matchmaker website, and seeing what was on the agenda for Saturday evening.

 

There was something set up at a cafe. The details suggested that the outing was for the more 'reserved' singles, especially those who were interested in music and literature.

 

John could see Scott enjoying himself a bit more at something set up specifically for intellectuals.

 

Maybe Scott would find an alpha as intelligent as he was and get lost in a riveting discussion about symbolism in Dickens novels.

 

The thought made John deflate somewhat.

 

Of course Scott would eventually meet someone more suited to him. Someone who was as posh and elegant and good looking.

 

_Except that Scott isn't looking for a mate._

 

And there was always the chance that alphas like Douche-y McArseFace would try and pressure Scott into something. And didn't John read something about a string of omega homicides? Yes, now that he thought about it, he had.

 

_ Well _ , John decided.  _ I guess I should go, just to keep an eye out.  _

 

_You can't be too careful these days._

 

….......

 

John wondered if he had ever lied to himself so blatantly as he had when he convinced himself that he was going to the cafe just to be a good friend. It was as plain as day that he was going there for one purpose and one purpose only.

 

He wanted to court Scott.

 

Not that he disrespected Scott's desire to remain unbonded, but there was nothing wrong with presenting a casual interest in perhaps pursuing a relationship...

 

John had a problem.

 

John needed help.

 

John should probably talk to his therapist about this.

 

Who was he kidding? He wasn't going to talk to his therapist about this. He was going to go to that cafe and offer to pay for Scott's food because he wanted to thank him for...making last night more bearable.

 

Yeah. That was something he could do.

 

And! And! And he returned tonight to make sure Scott didn't get stuck talking to Douche-y McArseFace or the drunk sixty year old Scott had dubbed Grandpa Grabby Hands.

 

That was the plan.

 

Yeah.

 

And if Scott accepted the food as the beginning of the courting process...well that was fine. John wouldn't have a problem with that.

 

He half hoped that Scott didn't even show up to the cafe. It was going to save everyone some awkwardness and embarrassment.

 

Scott was already there when John arrived. He offered John a small smile, but continued to speak with a female alpha in her thirties who was practically bending over backwards to keep his attention. Scott looked, to put it politely, like he was screaming internally.

 

John checked in with the coordinator and ordered two coffees from the barista before sitting down at an out of the way table. He reasoned that if Scott approached him, it was okay for John to offer him the coffee. He wasn't going to tug him out of any conversation and thrust the drink upon him. That would be creepy.

 

That also appeared to be what Douche-y McArseFace was attempting.

 

God, what was Douche-y even  _ doing  _ here? He didn't look like he had spent a second of his life reading for pleasure, and yet here he was at a Matchmaker event for bibliophiles. 

 

Not that John was a big reader either, but  _ still.  _

 

Scott rejected Douche-y's drink and extracted himself from the situation, catching John's eye and approaching. Scott took the seat across from John without asking and promptly snatched the extra coffee.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered, although he made a face when he swallowed. “Good Lord, don't you put sugar in this?”

 

“Oh no, you're one of  _ those _ ,” John lamented. “And here I thought we were getting along.” 

 

Scott made a face and fixed his glasses. “Don't pretend you're better than me. I know for a fact that you have a sweet tooth.”

 

John smiled. “How exactly?”

 

“You stared at the pastry selection for about twenty six uninterrupted seconds. Either you were questioning the existence of the pastries or you were trying to decide if you wanted one. It appeared to be a great struggle.”

 

“The had the jam filled kind,” John defended himself. “I only have so much strength.”

 

“And yet you resisted.”

 

“I might still crumble. The night is long.”

 

“Speaking of,” Scott said, finishing the coffee. “I know you've been here for all of three minutes, but do you want to leave? I'm fairly certain neither of us have a true appreciation for Russian literature and my brother will be happy that I've just shown up. I know a bakery around the corner where we can test your willpower.”

 

John couldn't agree fast enough.

 

They got up to go when the douche incarnate with the steroid assisted muscles apparently threw a fit at Scott's departure.

 

“Where you going, gorgeous? Don't you want to stay and talk for a while?”

 

“Piss off, Kyle,” Scott snapped, walking resolutely towards the door.

 

Douche-y McArseFace's real name was Kyle. Noted.

 

“C'mon, baby doll,” Kyle said, actually having the nerve to reach out and grip Scott's shoulder.

 

John snapped.

 

He didn't even know what happened. One second Kyle was reaching towards Scott, the next John had him pressed down on a table with his arm bent behind his back. John growled for a moment before his brain caught up with his biology and he let Kyle go, stepping away quickly.

 

The coordinator looked livid as John stammered his apologies, acutely aware that all eyes were on him. Kyle was cursing and rubbing his shoulder, spouting some vitriol and threats about calling the police. The coordinator was lecturing and trying to ban John from any other meetings. The other patrons were cheerfully freaking out amongst themselves.

 

“It isn't his fault,” Scott's voice suddenly cut through the chaos. Everyone quieted down. “His reaction was unconscious, involuntary, and biologically justified.”

 

“Justified?” the coordinator, a beta woman whose name John forgot.

 

Scott rolled his eyes. “Being a beta, I doubt you would understand. John reacted to the alpha instinct of protecting one's territory.” Scott held up the coffee cup he had been about to toss before Kyle decided to be a dickhead. “He offered me nourishment. I accepted. First step of the courting process.”

 

Now the beta looked furious at Kyle. “You challenged another alpha's claim? If you read the guidelines for these meetings, you would remember that once an alpha and omega enter courtship, the first alpha has the right to intercede.”

 

Kyle mumbled something along the lines of, “Stupid omega whore courting so quickly,” and John put on his best 'Captain Watson would like to murder you' glare. Kyle, although considerably bigger than John, shrunk back and lowered his head slightly, acknowledging his claim.

 

“Let's go,” Scott said carelessly, like there hadn't just been a cock fight over him. Gorgeous, posh bastard was probably used to it. “There's a little too much testosterone in here for my taste.” He tossed the coffee cup and turned back towards the exit.

 

“If you scent him, don't forget to register it!” the beta coordinator called after them. She was happily ignored.

 

Without even really realizing he was doing it, John's hand was on Scott's shoulder, guiding him out of the cafe and well down the street before the tension left his body and his brain started working again. He withdrew his hand and began apologizing profusely.

 

“You're fine,” Scott said, waving it off. He took out his mobile and tapped out a quick text. “And I must warn you, although I appreciated the display, it might have been for nothing.”

 

It felt like John's heart fell out of his chest and landed at his feet, displaying itself for Scott to trample to pieces.

 

“I've been lying to you,” Scott said, still casual, although there was something guarded in his expression.

 

“About what?” John prompted, trying to smother his unjustified heart break and--he felt--justified anger.

 

“Well, my name isn't Scott Williams,” Scott started. “It's Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Well, that wasn't _exactly_ what John had been expecting. He stood there blinking at Scott—Sherlock—for a moment, startled back into reality when a raindrop hit his face.

 

“We're near that bakery,” Sherlock said, turning up the collar on his jacket. “If you would like, we can go there and I can explain myself. I assure you that my explanation actually makes sense and the deception had nothing to do with you specifically.”

 

“Fine, yeah,” John sighed, the alpha part of him influencing his decision more than he cared to admit. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he had still accepted John's rushed and inappropriately forward courting behaviors.

 

“Excellent, I would have hated to have caused a scene for no reason. Let's get out of this rain.”

 

He started quickly down the street and John hurried to follow. He caught up to Sherlock find that the man had taken off his glasses and run his hands through his hair, tousling the previously neat curls. That, combined with the slight shift in his behavior, made John wonder who Sherlock really was.

 

Sherlock Holmes. It was an unusual name. And John had to admit that it better suited the equally unusual man.

 

Sherlock had been understating when he said the bakery was close. They walked less than one block before they ducked into the warm, fragrant shop that made John's stomach rumble.

 

Sherlock told John to get a table while he spoke to the owner. He returned to the table a moment later with a box full of free food.

 

“How...?”

 

“Mm, I helped the owner out with a legal problem last year. He nearly lost the shop when his brother in-law ran off with all the money he and his wife had been saving up for years. I happened to overhear and I volunteered to help Henry track his brother in law down. I refused compensation, so he gives me free food instead. Overall, I consider the endeavor a good investment.”

 

John had to agree. He would have said so, but his mouth was full of heavenly jam pastries.

 

“Wait...so you're not a school teacher?” John started after he swallowed.

 

Sherlock smirked. “Scott Williams is a school teacher. Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective.”

 

“Not a private detective, though.”

 

“No. I pick and choose my cases. More often than not I assist New Scotland Yard with the more difficult investigations. But again, I pick and choose. I enjoy solving puzzles, not crimes. It has to be particularly clever or particularly beneficial for myself to warrant my involvement.”

 

“...Alright.”

 

“I'm working a case right now,” Sherlock continued. “One that necessitated a pseudonym and a back story to go along with it. Have you heard of the omega homicides?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” John said, cringing internally that he had nearly used those same murders as an excuse to practically stalk 'Scott.' That wasn't creepy in the slightest.

 

“Five bodies, only connection being that they're unbonded omegas and, as I discovered, they all used Matchmaker and attended the social events semi regularly. I'm undercover, attempting to find the serial killer.”

 

“Ah, I see,” John said, looking down at his hands. And he probably doesn't want some lonely old alpha with a limp following him around like a lovestruck teenager.

 

Wait a second.

 

Limp.

 

John looked around for his cane before he realized he had left it in the cafe.

 

Huh.

 

“I was wondering when you would notice,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “Any pain at all?”

 

“None,” John said in wonderment.

 

“You left it behind when Kyle put his hands on me,” Sherlock made a face. “Apparently the adrenaline surge was enough to...restart that part of your system.”

 

“Huh.” It took John a few moments to process that. “Huh.”

 

“Are you back yet?”

 

“What? Oh yes, sorry! It's just...huh.”

 

“Yes, walking, the modern miracle of man,” Sherlock said drily.

 

“It feels like a miracle when you haven't been able to do it,” John snapped. “Never mind it, what about these homicides?”

 

“Well,” Sherlock said, smothering a small smile, “as an unbonded omega, I was in the position to use myself as bait in an attempt to locate the killer, which I believe to be an alpha responding violently to rejection. I've spoken to every alpha attending the Matchmaker gatherings, but I haven't seen anyone who fits, just a lot of lonely alphas past their prime.”

 

John cleared his throat.

 

“Are you suggesting otherwise?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. “I will not lie to stroke your ego, John. Therefore, you can trust that I'm telling the truth when I say that you are by full the least annoying alpha I've met.”

 

John felt a little better. Somehow. Then something else occurred to him. “Why let me court you?”

 

“Hm?” Sherlock seemed to startle from his thoughts.  
  


“You took the coffee,” John reminded him. “C'mon, we learned this in primary school. The first step to courting: the alpha offers the omega sustenance. The omega accepts and the alpha stakes a claim, protective instincts rise up. That stupid alpha in the back of my head whispers 'My precious' like freaking Smeagol and I overreact when an asshat with no sense of personal boundaries touches you.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I thought you might like to assist me.”

 

“Assist you?”

 

“Yes. Assist me. You're a doctor. An army doctor, in fact. Combine that with the biological instinct to protect me and you're the perfect assistant and body guard. This is a dangerous case, John. I'm reckless but I'm not suicidal. I decided last night that if you were interested in me then I would let you in on the investigation. You can end the courtship, if you'd like. I meant it before when I said I wasn't looking for a mate, I'm married to the Work as it is. Not that I'm denying that I reciprocate the interest, it simply doesn't rank very highly on my list of priorities at this time.” Sherlock sat back. “However, joining me would be mutually beneficial. You like excitement and danger, I could see it when I described my case. You want to feel useful, purposeful. And you want to feel it with a gun in hand and a comrade at your side. Running through London, chasing murderers, saving innocent lives, just you and me against the rest of the world.” Sherlock let a big smile crack through his stoic expression. “So, what do you say, John?”

 

John's heart was already hammering in his chest. There was only one thing to say.

 

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me for updates, excerpts, and ficlets at emptycel.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted two chapters today. Be sure to read Chapter Two before this one.

“ _Compatible Alphas and Omegas will court without even intending to, sometimes without their conscious consent. It is nature's way of ensuring that the perfect match finds each other, even if the couple in question is too dense to realize it.”_

 

… _......._

 

John had been an...unexpected addition to Sherlock's lifestyle, however he couldn't say that he found himself regretting the emotional entanglement, as of yet. There was, of course, still plenty of time for that to bite him in the arse, but he decided, rather uncharacteristically, to just accept this small happiness where he could.

 

After all, the praise wasn't going to get old any time soon and John didn't look like he was running low on it.

 

“I'm afraid we must part for the evening,” Sherlock said, taking out his phone and scrolling through his messages. There were several from Lestrade, wondering if he had learned anything valuable and reminding Sherlock (unnecessarily) not to put himself in excessive danger.

 

“Oh,” John said, sounding disappointed and slightly confused. Sherlock watched John check the time and have a tiny heart attack when he realized just how long they had been sitting in the bakery speaking. Sherlock had asked Henry to keep his bakery open for them late, as they would be discussing the case at length, and the baker had agreed with overwhelming enthusiasm, still desperate to pay Sherlock back an imaginary debt.

 

Not that Sherlock was complaining. He simply didn't see the human need to repay services voluntarily given.

 

“Jesus,” John muttered. “I didn't even realize...Christ, is it even _safe_ to be out this late?”

 

Sherlock had to smile. Then a rather lovely idea occurred to him.

 

“Care to kip on my couch?” he asked casually. “My flat's much closer and I'd only be waking you up early tomorrow morning anyway.”

 

John considered the offer. They had already discussed the possibility of his accompanying Sherlock to Bart's early in the day to see the corpse of the previous victim. This was, of course, a logical alternative. Sherlock just hoped that he could disguise the fact that there was a low level of adrenaline buzzing in his veins at the idea of John accepting.

 

“Makes sense,” John finally conceded. “Provided the sofa isn't murder on my back,” he added with a smile. Sherlock returned it with his assurances. Of course John would feel it necessary to emphasize the sofa once again. He was a gentleman, John was. He wouldn't rush anything.

 

Sherlock didn't intend to either. He was dead serious when he said he didn't want a mate. He wanted to study John, partially because he was curious, partially so he could get a more accurate map on alpha behavior to see if it would help connect any of the pieces in the murders.

 

And if the omega that lived in the back of his mind was positively dancing that John had accepted, well, that was something else entirely.

 

…......

 

Sherlock watched John sleep on the couch with a distinctly less-fuzzy feeling in his stomach as soon as he realized that he had given into his omega instincts without a second thought. They were three steps into to courtship process after a handful of hours.

 

Sherlock shook off the feeling. After all, they weren't even close to the point of no return. He just couldn't let John scent him.

 

He would need to sit John down in the morning to be sure that each was in perfect understanding of the other's intentions.

 

He didn't think it would be _too_ bad. After all, John hadn't seemed upset when Sherlock reminded him that the courtship was convenient, not something actively desired. The soldier had seemed more excited at the idea of returning to battle, even if he wouldn't be getting a mate in the bargain.

 

Sherlock marveled over the little man with the surprising need for danger. He had no hesitation at the idea of jumping once more into the fray. He was excited at the idea. He was even smiling in his sleep, showing no signs that he regretted a single moment of the evening.

 

Which was when Sherlock realized he had been watching John sleep for a frankly disturbing amount of time. He retired to his bedroom to think, trying to decide how to nip this whole _feelings_ think in the bud before it became obvious.

 

Heaven help him if _Mycroft_ found out.

 

….......

 

Sherlock didn't get the chance to speak to John that morning. In fact, he hadn't had the chance to do more than point to where the food was typically kept when his phone started pinging with rather insistent text messages.

 

**Found another body. Can you make it? --Lestrade**

 

An address followed a moment later.

 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, all thoughts of important discussions and intentions to visit Bart's flying out of his head as he grabbed his coat (his proper coat, not the stupid jacket he had been wearing for the case) and was halfway down the stairs when he realized that John probably required more explanation. It was in his experience that people didn't tend to blindly follow him wherever he--

 

Oh. There John was now. His shoes were untied, his jacket was still in his arms and there was a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth, but he was already out of the door and following Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow in query when he saw that Sherlock was just standing there and looking at him.

 

“Come along!” Sherlock called, ignoring that stupid warm feeling and turning back to hurry down the rest of the stair case. “We need to get there before Scotland Yard mucks everything up.”

 

“I'm assuming we are headed to a crime scene of some sort?” John asked around the piece of toast.

 

“Another victim,” Sherlock explained as he locked the front door and rushed to the street to hail a cab. The second one he saw pulled over. By the time it stopped, John had managed to put on his jacket and consume the toast. He was still working on his shoe laces when they settled themselves into the seats. Sherlock repeated the address and watched John carefully tie and double knot each of his shoes.

 

“But you said no one seemed shifty at the cafe last night?” John interrupted Sherlock's fixation with his footwear.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “It's possible that someone arrived after we left, we did remove ourselves from the scene very early into the evening, or that this victim had been targeted some time ago. So many variables. My attending the meetings have only reduced some of them. Having you involved in the investigation will reduce more, but there's only so much that can be accounted for.”

 

“Right,” John said, still slightly breathless from his rushed morning. “Alright. Variables. Amazing.”

 

Sherlock paused. “Are you actually aware that you say all of this out loud?”

 

John colored slightly. “Oh, ah, sorry.”

 

“Oh, no. It's fine. I encourage it.”

 

Sherlock turned to look out of the window and if he happened to catch John's faint reflection in the glass smiling at him with unabashed admiration...well, he had more important things to worry about.

 

Like murder!

 

Yes, murder. People were dying. _Omegas_ were dying. And while Sherlock tried to convince himself that he didn't allow the prejudices society placed on his gender affect him, he had to admit that there seemed to be something inherently _wrong_ about butchering omegas.

 

He wondered if he should warn John about the exact nature of these murders.

 

No. Better to see how he reacted unprepared. Plus, he was a soldier. It shouldn't be too bad.

 

….......

 

The omega was found in her flat by her sister, who had immediately fled the scene after calling the police. Sherlock entered the building easily enough, but was stopped at the door of the victim's flat by a particularly annoyed looking Donovan.

 

“You can't bring dates to a crime scene,” she stated bluntly when it became apparent that John wasn't just a passerby. “You're lucky we're even letting _you_ on this.”

 

“No, _you're_ lucky that I'm bothering to assist you with this,” Sherlock snapped. “John's my assistant. He's a doctor. I'll need him to examine the body.”

 

“We already have people who do that.”   
  


“And they hate me.”

 

“You make it easy.”

 

“Well, they're idiots.”

 

They reached an impasse.

 

“I can wait out here...?” John started, sounding uncertain.

 

“No, you're coming. Donovan, let us through.” Sherlock stared Donovan down until she shrugged and stepped aside.

 

“Anything he does is on your head, Freak.”

 

“Come along, John,” Sherlock ordered as he entered the apartment. Forensics was milling around, ruining evidence most likely.

 

John followed Sherlock closely, looking uncomfortable but curious. Sherlock was happy to note that John appeared to be ignoring all the confused and occasionally hostile looks they were receiving from the officers on the scene.

 

Sherlock followed the sound of Lestrade's voice to the bedroom, where the Inspector was standing over the body of an unfamiliar young woman, sprawled rather elegantly on the floor. Lestrade and the other officers looked sickened by the sight, and it wasn't difficult to see why.

 

Her throat had been slit and her fair skin was crimson with the resulting gush of blood. There were other slashes made on her arms, and wrists, over the arteries.

 

“ _Jesus,_ ” John gasped, staring down at the ground and breathing through his mouth. He looked like he was fighting the impulse to turn and run from the room. Sherlock frowned very slightly, having had thought that John would be desensitized to such sights by now.

 

“Who are you?” Lestrade asked John.

 

“John, Lestrade. Lestrade, John. Moving on.” Sherlock knelt next to the body, ignoring the pools of blood. “John, could you take a look at her.”

 

“I think the cause of death is fairly obvious, Sherlock,” John said, still breathing through his mouth. He wasn't averting his gaze from the body, but something was clearly distressing him.

 

“Sherlock, you can't just bring people to crime scenes,” Lestrade was saying. Sherlock ignored him, fixing his eyes on John instead.

 

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked.

 

John looked surprised for a second before glancing around. “I think it's bloody obvious what's--Oh, no one else can smell it.”

 

“Smell what? Oh,” Sherlock said, as his thoughts caught up to the situation.

 

“Wait, what? What's happening? Who is this? What are you on about? Sherlock!” Lestrade was babbling. Sherlock stood and surveyed the room for a moment before turning to Lestrade.

 

“Anderson is still out of town,” Sherlock stated, some pieces coming together. “Officer Brent transferred a few months ago. Anderson's lackey, what was her name again? Hamilton? She's on paternity leave. Nearly a dozen people in this apartment and John's the only alpha.”

 

“So?” Lestrade asked, crossing his arms.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As a beta, I don't really expect you to understand, so I will do you the service of explaining it to you. The victim was marked by an alpha. Not bonded, but scented. She was deep into courtship, and had been marked as an another alpha's territory. Omegas can pick up the scent slightly, but it isn't really noticeable unless attention is called to it. For alphas, the smell of marking is like a red flag, warning the alpha to stay away. Before the bond is official, a marked omega is still in danger from forced bonds. This is a mild form of protection, and an easy way to sort out who has the proper claim. It gets much stronger and much more aversive when the omega is in danger, as it also serves to attract the pre-bond mate so that they may protect the omega from danger.”

 

Sherlock turned to John. “This is likely rather unpleasant, your instincts screaming at you to leave. You can step out if you'd like.”

 

“I'm fine,” John sighed. “Afghanistan, remember? I've seen, and smelled, worse.”

 

“So she was marked? She wouldn't be using Matchmaker, though, would she?”

 

“Marking is hardly marriage, it's more like engagement,” Sherlock muttered. “If the scent isn't regularly reinforced, it can fade completely in a few weeks. It's possible she was dissatisfied with her relationship, or perhaps the marking was unintentional. I can't tell from the scent alone, it's far too weak for me. John, is there anything else you're getting?”

 

John took a deep breathe, looking sick as he did so. “Marking scent is strong, but singular...” John concentrated. “God, I'm not good at this sort of thing. If I had to guess I'd say the marking was recent and hasn't been reinforced.”

 

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said, favoring John with a look of approval. Another thought struck him. “Has there been an alpha on the scene at a single one of these murders?”

 

Lestrade frowned. “Beta, remember? You know I don't pay attention to that sort of thing.”

 

“Hm, of course not. Alphas are only ten percent of the population and with Anderson on extended holiday and Hamilton's omega just giving birth to triplets, you've been running the investigation with only betas and myself. I have to wonder what else we've missed.”

 

Sherlock looked at the body again. “Nothing new to be found,” he declared. “Same as the last victims. She invited the attacker in, but struggled before succumbing to blood loss. Her throat was slit after she lost consciousness. Hm, I wonder...John, can you pick up the scent of her alpha behind the distress call?”

 

“It's muddy,” John said, shaking his head. “I might recognize it if I smell it again, but I sincerely doubt I could pick it out in a crowd.”

 

“Shame,” Sherlock muttered. He turned to John. “You've been extraordinarily useful.” Then he turned to Lestrade. “Her name was Angela Stafford, correct? She has a sister to lives on the other side of London. Interview her, she might know something about this alpha. The two of them are close despite the fact that her sister is a beta having difficulty conceiving and holds a certain resentment for the victim's omega, and therefore incredibly fertile, status. She's a veterinarian with a practice close to home. You'll find the business card stuck to the fridge. Her name is Michelle. If anyone knows who the alpha is, it's her.”

 

Lestrade started barking orders and looking for the business card.

 

“I have no idea how you knew all of that,” John said, holding his sleeve to his nose, “but that was bloody amazing. Can I leave now?”

 

Sherlock felt a small stab of sympathy. John's was practically twitching out of his skin.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock said briskly. He turned to leave the room. “Come on, I need to get back to the flat and do some research. You're welcome to accompany me. If you have nothing else on, that is,” Sherlock added as an afterthought.

 

“Oh, God, no, I don't have other plans. I'm not sure what help I'll be to you, though.”

 

“Just sit there, sometimes I just need something to talk to and Mrs. Hudson took my skull.”

 

“So I'm filling in for your skull, then?”

 

“Relax, you're doing fine.”

 

….......

 

Donovan grasped John's arm as they were leaving and hauled him to the side. Sherlock, naturally, pretended not to notice long enough that Donovan stopped keeping an eye out for him. He then snuck back and hid around the corner, eavesdropping like a pro.

 

“Look, I know he's an omega and you're an alpha, but stay the hell away from Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John sounded confused, angry, and defensive all at the same time. “I honestly don't think you have the right to tell me what to do.”

 

“You're unbonded and he's fit, I get it. But there are a lot of other omegas out there. Don't get involved with Sherlock before it's too late to get the hell out.”

 

John was silent for a moment. “Yeah, no. Thanks for the concern, but I can take care of myself.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes is dangerous,” Donovan insisted, her voice shaking slightly with sincerity. It was convincing enough that Sherlock mentally reviewed all his associations with her before deciding that her fear was actually rather justified. “He's a psychopath. He _likes_ all this. The death, the chaos. He's bored without it.” There was a dramatic pause. “One day, he's not going to be satisfied with just being here. One day, the boredom will get the best of him. When that day comes, it will be Sherlock will be leaving bodies all over the city, and we won't be able to do a damn thing to stop him.”

 

John didn't say anything for a tremendously long amount of time. Then, he sniffed, cleared his throat, and shifted. “Yeah. Ta, for that. But I'm not convinced.”

 

“Oh?”

 

There was a smile in his voice. “No. Sherlock's not a psychopath. He's a soldier. He just doesn't like taking orders. We're a lot alike in that respect, although I'm fairly certain he's killed less people than I have.” John Watson, the little doctor with the friendly smile and the cuddly jumpers, the hardened soldier with his finger on a trigger and blood on his hands. He seemed to switch between two personalities as it suited him. His choice at the moment was obvious. “Thanks for the chat, but I must be going. I've got a madman to keep up with.”

 

Sherlock could have kissed John. He didn't, but he could have.

 

Instead, he slipped away and hurried ahead, hailing a cab and trying to pretend that he wasn't repeating that glorious scene on a loop in his mind.

 

….......

 

“What are you doing, exactly?” John asked, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up at the laptop and leaned unconsciously into John's presence.   
  


“I'm hacking into the Matchmaker data base,” he said shortly. “I need to see the guest list. I need to see where Angela Stafford's name shows up and if the service made a record of the marking.”

 

“Do they do that?”

 

“Hm, yes. It's to solve territory and claim disputes. You'll recall that our coordinator intervened last night when your claim was challenged. Very useful, that claim, by the way. It will make me less of a target. The alphas might be more inclined to speak with me seriously if they don't think that I'm a prize they need to win.”

 

“You're welcome, I guess,” John said. His voice sounded a little weird but Sherlock was distracted with the information he managed to pull up on his computer.

 

“She arrived at the cafe last night near the end of the gathering,” Sherlock muttered. “No record of her marking. Likely unintentional, then. She was waiting for the scent to fade away on its own. She wasn't interested in the alpha after all.”

 

“Or he was a twat and skipped all the other courtship stages,” John added. “You don't technically need to offer food and shelter and such before the omega can be marked.”

 

“Makes it stronger, though.” Sherlock pointed out. “If she was interested she might have insisted. An un-courted mark can fade in a day if it isn't reinforced. It likely wasn't intentional, or at least she didn't willingly submit to it.”

 

There was a moment of silence, interrupted for a time only by John breathing against the back of Sherlock's neck. Rationally Sherlock realized that the action should probably be considered invasive, but the happy little omega part of his mind was too content for him to bother being annoyed by it.

 

Sherlock was just beginning to focus on his work again when John spoke.

 

“How does one unintentionally mark?” John asked, his voice sounding strange again as he moved away from Sherlock's back and heading towards the kitchen. Sherlock frowned at the tone and would have inquired about it if John hadn't offered to make tea.

 

“Yes. Milk,” he responded automatically. “Two sugars.”

 

“Coming up,” John said, slightly muffled by distance.

 

He returned a few minutes later when two steaming cups.

 

“Proximity and time spent together,” Sherlock said suddenly, startling John. “And compatibility of the bond.”

 

“What?”   
  


“How an omega get's unintentionally marked. The alpha and the omega spend a good deal of time in each others' presence. The amount of time necessary goes down based on genetic compatibility, which the body recognizes based on the particular scent of the pheromones.”

 

“Ah, I see.” John said. He took a sip from his tea. “Yeah, that might explain it. And physical contact isn't actually needed? Not the licking or the biting?”

 

Sherlock considered the thought. “I suppose not, not if the scent was accepted by the omega. The would just have to mingle long enough to imprint upon the omega's scent glands.”

 

“Hm, right,” John said thoughtfully, taking a swallow of his tea. “Yeah, that scent isn't fading. Not to alarm you or anything, but think I might have just marked you.”

 

Sherlock froze and put a hand to the back of his neck, where John had just been standing. Sure enough, his hand came back slightly damp from the oils secreted by his scent gland. Christ, Sherlock's body had latched onto the scent without even asking his brain if it was a good idea. That was ridiculous, all John had done was _breathe_ on him.

 

“Well, that's not ideal.” Sherlock had to admit that he felt remarkably calm about this.

 

“I suppose it isn't,” John said, but there was something smug about his expression.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “It doesn't mean anything,” Sherlock insisted.

 

“Of course not.” He still looked remarkably pleased with himself.

 

“I'm not yours.”

 

“I know you aren't. Christ, we barely know each other. I'm not going to tie you to my side and order you around because you smell like me.” For God's sake the man was smiling at him.

  
“Good.”

 

“It's all fine, Sherlock.” That damn smile.

 

Sherlock frowned. “Of course it's fine, why wouldn't it be fine? It means nothing.”

 

“You've already said that.”

 

John still had that positively infuriating little smile on his face.

 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “I think I might actually hate you.”

 

“Which is fine.”

 

“Oh, piss off, John.”

 

…........

 

Mycroft sent Sherlock three texts.

 

**Settling down at long last? --Mycroft**

 

**I suppose you could do worse than a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. And he's a doctor. Mummy will be so pleased. --Mycroft.**

 

And then, a little later...

 

**Don't get hurt by this, Sherlock. Caring isn't an advantage. --Mycroft.**

 

Sherlock was tempted to break his phone. It spoke volumes to his self control that he managed to calmly ignore the texts and continue his research. He had found that two of the previous victims had been recorded in the Matchmaker data base as marked.

 

The other three hadn't been, but it was possible that they were in the same boat as Angela Stafford. After all, unintentional markings happened.

 

Sherlock sighed, wondering when he would stop smelling like John.

 

The fact that John was just sitting in an arm chair reading the paper didn't help. Before long the  _ entire flat _ would smell like it was his territory. 

 

But Sherlock did enjoy his company. And it wasn't like he was going to be presenting anytime soon, so it was fine.

 

It was all fine.

 

Wait. Mycroft knew.

 

Bloody--

 

Sherlock sighed and got up from the computer. He had missed some of those stupid sodding cameras. He walked around the living room and tried to deduce where the camera could be. The his phone pinged with another text.

 

**You won't find it. --Mycroft.**

 

**PISS OFF MYCROFT –SH**

 

**I think I'll be having a chat with our doctor soon. --Mycroft.**

 

**NO. --SH**

 

“John, if any random cars pull up next to you on the street, just ignore them and keep walking.”

 

John looked up from his paper for a moment, contemplated the wall, shrugged, and looked back to the news. “Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

Sherlock hesitated, looking around the room and enjoying the feeling of John's presence. The little omega voice in the back of his mind was positively elated that there was an alpha nearby.

 

Sherlock was convinced that tiny voice somehow managed to take control of his mouth and brain for a moment when he asked, “You're staying with your sister and her omega, aren't you?”

 

“Yes,” John answered, his tone neutral.

 

“It must be uncomfortable, staying in another alpha's territory.”   
  
“It can get a bit tense, yeah.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “There's an extra bedroom upstairs if you'd like to stay here for a time. It would only take a moment to make up the bed.”

 

John put the paper down and looked at Sherlock for a long while.   
  
“What?” Sherlock finally snapped.

 

John smiled. “I'll have to pick up a couple changes of clothes, but I think I might just take you up on that.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock said, nodding.

 

“Good.”

 

…........

 

Once John left the flat to pick up some clothes, Sherlock took out his violin.

 

What was he doing?

 

What the actual fuck was he doing?

 

As soon as John left and took his stupid alpha scent with him Sherlock's rational brain finally decided to wake up and pay him a visit.

 

This was bad.

 

Sherlock was _marked_ for Christ's sake. He was practically bloody engaged to be married. Disregarding the fact that every single one of his actions since he's met John have been horrifically out of character, he actively _did not want this._

 

He didn't want to be tied down. He didn't want a mate.

 

He played his violin and thought.

 

No, his mind hadn't changed. He still didn't want one. He instincts were telling him otherwise, but when he _wasn't_ thinking with his dick, he was still certain that the idea of being legally owned by John Watson repulsed him.

 

And it's not like he asked him to move in, Sherlock reminded himself. He just invited John to stay for a few days.

 

In a completely separate bedroom.

 

Once the case was over, John would leave again and everything would return to normal.

 

Yes, that was what he wanted. For everything to be boring, lonely, and normal again.

 

Sherlock sighed and played his violin more aggressively. Sodding hormones and instincts and _feelings_ and all that shite.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me at emptycel.tumblr.com for updates, excerpts, and ficlets.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments! I'm doing my best to respond to each one, so feel free to ask me any questions. I will most definitely get back to you. :D

“ _Perfect matches can court and bond in the span of a day. The body knows what the mind resists. While it is true these matters should not be rushed, alphas and omegas don't like to be kept waiting once they've found their true mate.”_

 

… _......._

 

As John gathered a few changes of clothing he wondered what the hell he was doing. He was moving in, albeit temporarily, with an omega that wasn't interested in furthering the relationship.

 

Even if he had been scented.

 

John allowed himself a smile at the memory, of standing behind Sherlock and breathing in that sweet, tempting smell, of mixing his own scent with it where it was strongest.

 

He had realized almost immediately that he head done something, that something had shifted. He'd let their scents mingle closely for less than a minute before Sherlock's started changing very subtly. He'd backed off, made some tea, but when he'd returned the change was only stronger.

 

Sherlock smelled like _them._

 

A few more questions to confirm his suspicions and...

 

Sherlock hadn't, at least, looked angry. Just annoyed that he hadn't noticed on his own, that he had to be told.  
  


Then he'd looked a bit flustered as John's satisfaction grew and grew. He knew that he shouldn't feel this way, but he had to admit that he liked the idea that every alpha Sherlock saw in the next few days would know that he wasn't available.

 

He wasn't _John's_ necessarily, but he also wasn't anyone else's, and that was almost good enough.

 

John was ready to leave Harry's house when he heard her and Clara return home. He didn't know where they had gone, but he'd been grateful that he hadn't had to explain himself upon his return. He had been hoping to leave again before his sister could say anything to ruin his good mood, but it appeared he would not have the luxury. He bit the bullet and walked to the front hall.

 

“And where were you last night?” Harry asked the second John stepped into her line of sight.

 

“I stayed with a friend,” he explained quickly. “I'd been out later than I intended and was offered a couch to crash on.”

 

“Mmhm,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “And does this friend of yours go into heat every three months?”

 

John rolled his eyes, as though Harry was being ridiculous, and tried to push aside the image of Sherlock flushed and writhing while in the throws of his heat. He wasn't very successful. “His name is Sherlock and he's working through some issues right now. He asked me to stay with him for a few days while he sorts everything out.”

 

“Please tell me he's at least a beta.”

 

“Just be happy I'll be out of your hair for a few days. I'll try to find my own place while I'm there so I can unburden myself from you for good.”

 

Clara's eyes were soft and worried. “You know it's no trouble, John. We're happy to give you a place to stay as long as you need.”

 

John and Harry's eyes met and quickly looked away. Of course Clara would never understand why John living in Harry's territory might cause some unwanted tension. She was too kind to consider that Harry might be trying to find John a mate for purely selfish reasons.

 

“Don't worry,” John said, putting on a smile. “I'm sure I'll come crawling back in a few days. Sherlock can be a bit...intense. I doubt I could manage living with him for too long.”

 

Harry turned to Clara. “Fifty quid that this Sherlock bloke is an omega.” She turned back to John. “What the hell kind of name is Sherlock?”

 

“It suits him, he's a posh bastard.”

 

Harry snorted. “Tell me if he sets the dinner table with way more forks than could be possibly required in a single meal.”

 

“Will do,” John said with a smile that was more genuine. “I'll be seeing you soon. Call me if you need me,” John said, walking past them and heading towards the door.

 

“Do you want a lift?” Clara asked, holding up the car keys.

 

The acceptance was on John's tongue until he saw Harry's posture. He was definitely not allowed to be in a car alone with her omega.

 

“I'm fine,” he said. “I'll walk a bit and take the tube. It'll be faster.”

 

Clara looked doubtful. “If you're sure...”

 

“I'm sure,” John said. He opened moved to the door and escaped as quickly as possible.

 

Clara was a sweetheart, but she didn't seem to register that he was an alpha and that Harry would instinctively view him as a threat. He hoped that his absence would remove some of the tension from the marriage as well.

 

Although, with Harry's drinking getting worse, that might just be wishful thinking.

 

….......

 

John returned to 221B with an admittedly significant level of unease settling in his stomach. He'd have been blind not to see that Sherlock had been warring with himself over the invitation he extended to John. Under most circumstances, that would have been enough for John to politely refuse the offer.

 

However, as of late, John Watson appeared to be unable to think with anything other than his dick. And so, he stood in front of 221B, his things haphazardly packed in a suitcase, wondering if he was taking a risk to find happiness or if he was screwing up the only good thing that has happened to him since he returned from Afghanistan.

 

There was a small commotion over his head. John looked up to see Sherlock wrestling a stiff window open.

 

“Stop standing there,” Sherlock ordered, half hanging out the window. “It's unbearable. Mrs. Hudson thinks you're having second thoughts and is trying to console me by offering up anecdotes from her marriage.”

 

“And that is unbearable because...?” John yelled up.

 

“Mr. Hudson was a drug lord.”

 

“Ah, I see. I'll just be heading up then?”

 

“Where else would you go?”

 

That was a valid point. Regardless of misgivings concerning the intentions of either party, John didn't really have anywhere to go unless he was willing to swallow his pride and returned to Harry's house.

 

John climbed the steps and pushed the front door open, finding it unlocked. There was a bustle of activity over his head as Sherlock forced the window closed again and Mrs. Hudson, whom John had been introduced to earlier, prattled on about how her husband used do the most romantic things after they'd had a row.

 

“And then, after I found out about the poor young man he murdered, he was so broken up that-- Oh, hello John. I'm so happy to see you've come back.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John greeted her with a nod. “I'll just set my things upstairs then, shall I?”

 

Mrs. Hudson showed him to the spare bedroom with a flurry of hands and laughter. “Yes, yes. It's nice to see an old fashioned courtship these days. So proper of you two, staying in separate rooms until you've bonded.”

 

John tried to will away the awkward feeling that was threatening to overtake him. “Er, ah, well. We're not really intending to bond, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Oh, you alphas!” she said, sighing. “Always so afraid of commitment!”

 

“That's not really the issue--”

 

“Don't worry dear. I trust you'll make the right decision when the time comes. Until then, it's best to take things slow. I'm so happy Sherlock's found himself a gentleman willing to court him properly. So many young people are rushing into bonding without even knowing each other! They can't find their perfect mate that way, you know. They'll divorce before the ink dries on the marriage license.”

 

 

“Hm,” John hummed noncommittally, setting his stuff down on the floor and taking in the neat, if small, bedroom. There was an old dresser for his clothes and a single bed newly set up with sheets and bedding. It wasn't luxury, but it may as well have been with memories of sleeping on the sand still fresh in his mind.

 

“I'll let you get settled,” Mrs. Hudson said, turning to leave.

 

“Don't bother,” came Sherlock's baritone from the doorway. “We need to leave. Lestrade just texted. In a show of shocking competence, Scotland Yard has managed to locate the mystery alpha before we all died of old age.”

 

“You boys have fun,” Mrs. Hudson said, following them down the stairs at a more sedate pace. “If you haven't made it safe for those poor young omegas in a week, I'm raising your rent.”

 

“No worries, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock declared, dashing off to grab his scarf. “I'm certain we'll have it soon. The scent marking is the key, the piece we've been missing.”

 

John felt a little stab of pride for being the one to point it out even though it required absolutely no skill or effort on his part. Pride is a little funny like that sometimes.

 

Sherlock appeared to have some sort of magical ability to make cabs appear because they were seated and moving much sooner than John would have ever managed to accomplish.

 

“Where are we going?” John asked.

 

“To the alpha's house. Lestrade and his team will arrive just before we get there, which is probably for the best, as Lestrade tends to get unreasonably stroppy when I break into witnesses homes and frighten them.”

 

John bit his lip. “Yeah, I could see him doing that.”

 

“I don't see what the problem is if I still get the necessary information,” Sherlock sighed.

 

“Hm.”

 

There was a moment of silence.

 

“You make that noise when you disagree with me,” Sherlock said suddenly.

 

“What?”

 

“'Hm.'” Sherlock quoted. “I noticed before. You disagree but you don't want to argue. Odd. Most alphas I know jump at the chance to argue.”

 

“I can hold my own,” John admitted. “But alphas are rare enough and most don't have one for an older sister. I learned to pick my battles or get my head smashed against a wall.”

 

“...Did she really smash your head against the wall?”

 

“Six stitches and a concussion.”

 

Sherlock made an inelegant noise that sounded like repressed laughter.

 

“Don't mock!” John scolded, although there was a smile on his face. “It was traumatizing.”

 

“Was this before or after you presented?” Sherlock asked, shaking slightly but managing to restrain his laughter.

 

“After,” John admitted.

 

Sherlock let out a bark of the laughter. “So you were a sixteen year old alpha when your sister managed to give you a concussion with brute force.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Did you even try to fight back?”

 

“Yes. She would have stopped at the concussion, otherwise. The stitches were necessary when I retaliated.”

 

“What was the fight about? Something stupid, I presume.”

 

“I told her I wanted to join the army,” John said, sobering slightly. “She wanted to prove that I couldn't last a day.”  
  


“It sounds rather like the British Armed Forces could have used her in their ranks.” Sherlock had stopped laughing at least, although there was still a stupid smile on his face.

 

“Nah,” John sighed. “She wouldn't be able to follow the first order that she disagreed with. Regardless, I had to live with her for another two years, and in that time I perfected the art of saying 'Hm' and letting it go.”

 

“A useful skill.”

 

“I've thought so as well.”

 

….......

 

Jeremy Owens was most definitely _not_ skilled in the art of saying “Hm” and letting it go. He was an alpha like most others: belligerent, judgmental, arrogant, aggressive, and annoyed when he wasn't the center of attention.

 

For all that Sherlock complains about being an omega, he had nothing on John when it came to frustration with one's own gender.

 

As it was, Owens was standing rigid with his shoulders squared and his arms crossed over his chest, alternatively staring at Sherlock as though the man were a prize to be won, and John as though he were an annoying but insignificant obstruction in the path of winning said prize.

 

Owens was dark haired, dark eyed, strong jawed, and considerably bigger than John. He didn't seem to take the smaller man very seriously and was spending every moment he could trying to coax Sherlock's attention towards him.

 

John was warring with his desire to punch Owens in the face and stand protectively in front of his omega, and his current strategy of standing at ease with more than a little bit of murder in his eyes.

 

“Mr. Owens!” Lestrade said for the third time, trying to get the posturing alpha's attention. “Miss Stafford is dead,” he said, trying to impart the seriousness of the situation. “We need you to answer our questions.” He and Donovan shared an exasperated look that John had previously believed to be reserved for Sherlock.

 

“Oh, I'd love to help however I can,” Owens purred, trying to catch Sherlock's eye.

 

Sherlock made a disgusted face. He opened his mouth, likely to reveal something very embarrassing about the suspect, but Lestrade plowed forward before he could speak.

 

“Thank you,” Lestrade sighed, glaring at Sherlock.

 

John bristled at that. As though it was _Sherlock's_ fault that Owens was a wanker.

 

Sherlock flitted around Owens' living room, ignoring everything he didn't wish to acknowledge and absorbing more information than John could comprehend.

 

Watching him work _was_ pretty amazing, John had to admit. He couldn't really understand Sherlock's genius, and he was quite content just watching it all unfold.

 

And he really hoped that Sherlock was just stockpiling proof that Owens was an enormous prat because, unfortunately, he didn't seem to be the murderer.

 

“Yeah, we'd scented,” Owens was saying. “I met her at a Matchmaker thing and took her home. We spent the night together. Didn't meant to mark her, but it happens sometimes. You know how it is. Doesn't mean anything.” He said this with a significant look towards Sherlock. “It ain't a bloody bond.”

 

Lestrade looked a little confused. “Sherlock, weren't you saying it was like--”

 

“Engagement, yes,” Sherlock said, returning to John's side. “I also said it can happen accidentally.”

 

John happened to meet Owens' eye at that exact moment, which meant that the utter prick caught the faint twinge in John's expression.

 

“You too?” he said, sounding pleased. “Thought so. I could smell it as soon as you walked in.” He wrinkled his nose. “Repulsive, but it wasn't strong.”

 

“It's irrelevant,” Sherlock interrupted, sounding bored although John thought he saw the faintest blush on the detective's cheek bones. “As is this interview. Lestrade, there's nothing he can give us. He wasn't romantically attached to Miss Stafford and they were going to let the scent fade. He's unconnected to the murder.”

 

“How can you be so sure?” Donovan demanded.

 

“It's obvious by the state of his coffee table, if you were paying any attention,” Sherlock snapped, buttoning his coat. “John, call a cab. We need to try and make it to the Matchmaker meeting tonight.”

 

Lestrade and Donovan were finishing up as John hung up the phone, the cab on the way. Owens stepped away from the officers and was standing too close to Sherlock.

 

“Listen,” Owens was saying, looking at Sherlock in a way that was probably supposed to be seductive. “I know it's a bit forward of me, but I was wondering if I could give you my number. You can give me a call when that scent fades.”

 

The offer had completely captured Donovan's attention, who was biting her lip and trying not to laugh. Lestrade was barely faring any better.

 

“No,” Sherlock sighed.

 

“I'm not saying you have to call,” Owens continued. “I just wanted to give you the option. I mean, it's hard to be unbonded at our age.”

 

“Yeah, Sherlock,” Donovan interrupted. “God knows you've always wanted to settle down.”

 

“Cooking dinner and taking care of the children,” Lestrade added, his voice trembling slightly.

 

“Washing the dishes--”

 

“Doing the laundry--”

 

“And being a perfect little housewife,” Donovan finished with a smile.

 

John shouldn't intervene. He didn't have a right to intervene. Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate it if he did anything. Especially if he did anything alpha-specific. Reacting would be a bad idea and no one would benefit.

 

Then Sherlock met his eye. There was rage swirling in those ice blue eyes and Sherlock was on the edge of either breaking something or alienating himself even further by verbally ripping everyone to shreds.

 

John's eyes sought permission to do something. Sherlock's eyes granted him the permission. The entire exchange took less than a second.

 

John stepped up behind Sherlock, wrapped his arms around the man's waist, and pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck, right over the scent glands. And if John happened to get a little lost in Sherlock's delicious smell and the wonderful feeling of having his arms around the man...well, no one had to know that, did they?

 

“While I appreciate your interest,” Sherlock was saying when John came back to reality and loosened his hold slightly. “I'm afraid I am not available.”

 

Sherlock had placed his hands over John's, welcoming the embrace, but he soon dropped them and John took that as his cue to step back.  
  


The emotional turmoil that followed was almost worth the shocked speechless look on Sally Donovan's face. John was a little _too_ satisfied with that. Bitch.

 

John hadn't quite forgiven her for the whole 'Sherlock is a psychopath' speech yet. He wasn't sure if he was ever going to.

 

“Let's go, John,” Sherlock ordered as though nothing happened. “I'm sure the cab will be here soon.”

 

….......

 

“Well, that was fun,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence of the cab ride.

 

“Donovan certainly seemed to enjoy it,” John said, a small giggle escaping despite his best efforts.

 

Sherlock snorted. “She looked like I'd stripped naked and started dancing the macarana.”

 

John gave up. He started laughing until he stomach was aching from the force of it. “Do-do you think she'll ever regain her ability to speak?”

 

“God, I hope not.”

 

“It would be a blessing for us all.”

 

….......

 

“I've reinforced it,” John sighed as Sherlock sprawled on the couch. “It's a lot stronger.”

 

“Just as well,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes closed. “The more alphas that leave me the hell alone, the better.”

 

John grinned a surprisingly sad little grin as he went to go make tea. He could daydream all he wanted, but Sherlock saw the scenting as nothing more than a convenience, and once it was no longer that, he would let it fade. It was stupid to make it something that it wasn't.

 

He returned with the tea and glanced at the time. “We don't have long if we're going to make the event tonight. Are you even signed up for it?”

 

“I'm signed up for everything,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet and striding to his room. “Apparently there are fireworks in the park tonight,” he said with false cheerfulness. “Maybe if I'm lucky, a big strong handsome alpha will sweep me off my feet and kiss me beneath the glow of a thousand twinkling stars.”

 

John let out a huff of laughter. “It's an option,” he agreed, although Sherlock was out of earshot. Probably for the best.

 

John gulped down the rest of his tea and went upstairs to dig through his bag until he found a jumper that would be warm enough to withstand a night outside. After an extraordinarily long moment of hesitation, John also tucked his Sig in the waistband of his jeans. He wasn't going to need it, but it was a good idea to be prepared, just in case.

 

He came downstairs and saw that Sherlock had changed as well. In addition to his 'Scott' disguise, he had made some alterations to the rest of his clothing.

 

He's turned it into something that was going to make it very difficult to focus for the rest of the night.

 

“For the love of God,” John just said helplessly, throwing up his hands in a 'why' gesture. “How. Just how.”

 

The shirt was purple and it was silky and it was far too tight for a grown man to possibly convince himself that it fit. John could practically hear the screams of the straining buttons from across the room.

 

Sherlock looked down at himself. “I'm supposed to be enticing,” Sherlock pointed out.

 

“You win.”

 

“Do you think it's inappropriate?”

  
“I'm sure as hell not going to accomplish anything productive. I'll be standing with all the other alphas,--betas and omegas too, actually--drooling and placing bets over when your buttons are going to give up the fight.”

 

Sherlock managed to frown and look incredibly pleased at the same time. “Be professional John. We don't have time for this.”

 

“You're aware that you look _illegally_ good, right?”

 

“That's the point.”

 

“So long as you understand.”

 

“For God's sake, it's a shirt and trousers.”

 

“And it works.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

….......

 

John was grinning like an idiot and he didn't care. Christ, he was so fucked. He'd known Sherlock for...what, forty eight hours? Forty eight hours and he was acting like a teenager on his first date.

 

Except it's not a real date.

 

John allowed himself a small smile. Well, Sherlock _did_ know how he felt, and he hadn't told John to bugger off yet, so there's that.

 

And in the confines of the cab, it was glaringly apparent that their scents had melded almost imperceptibly, announcing to any alpha within smelling distance just who belonged to who.

 

 _My omega,_ the crazy little alpha in the back of John's mind purred. _My mate. My preciousss...._

 

John shifted slightly. _Calm the fuck down, Gollum._

 

“I swear to God, just sitting near you is reinforcing the scent,” Sherlock said, sounding both amused and annoyed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm all oily. Sodding scent glands.”

 

“Hm. Huge inconvenience of biology, that.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

John was smiling.

 

“I hate that smile,” Sherlock complained. “You look like Lestrade with a secret I can't deduce or Mycroft with an entire cake all to himself. Stop it.”

 

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“You're doing it right now.”

 

“I'm really not.”

 

They bantered until they arrived at their destination and the cabbie kicked them out.

 

Late for once, Sherlock and John were able to slip into the event unnoticed. They popped by the beta coordinator briefly (she reminded them to register their scenting) and joined the masses. To his visible annoyance, Sherlock was having problems speaking to an alpha for longer than it took for them to register that he was no longer emitting the sweet smelling pheromones of an unbonded omega, but musky smell of an alpha's claim. Apparently, for all his genius, he hadn't anticipated that this might cause a problem.

 

John took a shadowed role that evening, standing to the side and politely chatting with whomever tried to catch his attention, including a few omegas he remembered from his first event—was that only two nights ago? John was having difficulties focusing on the comically desperate redheaded omega in front of him while simultaneously trying to comprehend the sheer number of things that occurred over the course of just two days.

 

Well, John had the feeling that life with Sherlock was never going to be boring.

 

Speaking of which, the two of them needed to sit down and have a nice long talk about intentions. Both of them had been sending out a plethora of mixed signals. It was probably best that they sort that as soon as the case ended.

 

The redhead, her name was...Tessa, he thought, asked him a question. He asked her to repeat it. She looked annoyed, but didn't give up on the conversation.

 

“Did you scent Scott?” she asked, her eyes flicking over to Sherlock, who was on the other end of the group waiting for the fireworks to start.

 

“On accident,” John said, by way of an answer. “We aren't really together. Can't always control biology,” he pointed out.

 

Tessa was still annoyed by Sherlock's presence. “Don't you think he should have stayed home? I mean, until the scent faded. It sends mixed signals. They already have an alpha all over them, why do they need another? It's selfish. Omegas like him are the reason so many of us are still alone! Omegas like him are the reason that I'll never find a mate. Even smelling like you, the other alphas are gagging for him. He doesn't deserve you. He doesn't deserve them. He doesn't deserve _anyone._ ”

 

Tessa's tone had gone from mildly irritated to homicidal over the course of her brief soliloquy.

 

John was about ninety-nine percent positive that he was speaking with a serial killer.

 

He blinked and excused himself, moving through the crowd to get to Sherlock. He grabbed the detective's arm and tugged him to the side, probably looking like a pathetically territorial alpha, but he didn't really care.

 

“John, what are you doing? I was just talking to them for the case--”

 

“Tessa's a psychopath,” John interrupted, when they were out of ear shot.

 

“Who?”

 

“Tessa,” John said, nodding in the omega's direction. “Red head. Likes ferrets. She's crazy. You've been barking up the wrong tree. It isn't a possessive alpha, it's a psychotic, lonely, omega.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I understand that you might be uncomfortable by her advances--”

 

“Don't patronize me, Sherlock,” John interrupted, heated. “I was a soldier, and I was a bloody good one. I know danger when I feel it and intent to kill when I see it. Tessa's the one you're after and she's targeted you.”

 

Sherlock just looked at John, speechless.

 

Over their heads, the fireworks started.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me for updates, excerpts, and ficlets at emptycel.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for intimate relations between two men. If you're bothered by that...well I can't say this fic has exactly been subtle, so I don't really know what you're still doing here.

“ _Courtship is truly one of the simplest and most complicated things in our world. It is also, without a doubt, the most beautiful.”_

 

… _......._

 

_I know danger when I feel it and intent to kill when I see it._

 

Sherlock had made a miscalculation. His mind was suddenly chaos, rewriting every assumption, a dozen new theories replacing his old ones.

 

Amid the chaos, the tiny omega in the back of his mind was smugly rejoicing, because keeping John had obviously been a very good decision.

 

Because  _of course_ it wasn't an alpha. There was too much finesse, the incisions too surgical. An alpha would charge in headfirst and rip the victim to pieces. But an omega...an omega would be deliberate, careful, precise. 

 

And this omega...

 

Tessa...Fitzsimmons. That was it. Tessa Fitzsimmons, alarming love of ferrets aside, seemed relatively normal on the surface. She was quiet she was studious, she had been a biology major...oh. She would know where all the major arteries were located. She would know how to kill someone with that information.

 

Oh, yes. She did it. She had to have done it.

 

How did she do it? She followed the scented omegas home, knocked on the door, entered, and attacked?

 

Sherlock didn't have  _proof._ She was very good at cleaning up after herself. There had been noting left behind to indicate...

 

Or maybe there had been but Sherlock was too caught up in his own stupid  _wrong_ theories to see it. For all he knew she had left ferret dander behind at each scene. 

 

Sherlock knew what he would have to do.

 

“Perfect,” Sherlock breathed, looking John in the eyes. “We'll just have to wait for her to come and get me, then.”

 

“Bad idea,” John immediately began protesting. Sherlock ignored him and turned away, taking his phone out and texting Lestrade.

 

**Found murderer. Tessa Fitzsimmons. Omega. Need proof. Luring her to Baker Street. Be prepared. --SH**

 

He decided to ham it up a bit, and was excessively forward with as many alphas as were willing to overlook John's scent.

 

Lestrade texted back after a few minutes.

 

**Are you sure? Sherlock, explain for once. --Lestrade**

 

** Just be ready. I don't know when she will come, but I'm ninety percent sure she will. I'll let you know when I'm on my way. --SH  **

 

Sherlock sighed. He was never this polite. Stupid John must be having a stupid influence over his stupid personality.

 

He returned his attention to the alpha in front of him. Then, when he was sure that Tessa's eyes were on him, he moved to John's side again and put his arm around the shorter man's waist, leaning down to speak into his ear.

 

“You're definitely right,” Sherlock whispered. “She's watching me too closely for it to be anything else. Leave in twenty minutes. I'll leave in thirty. Wait on the top of the upstairs landing, she can't know you're there.”

 

“What are you going to do?” John breathed, turning so that the exchange looked as intimate as possible.

 

“I'm going to keep flirting. Just keep standing here looking jealous and possessive. You've been doing an admirable job so far, by the way.”

 

“I'm not exactly acting, but thank you.”

 

“Eventually, look like you've given up chasing me and head home. That should be the catalyst. Tessa will see it as me chasing available alphas away. She'll get angry enough to act tonight. I'll leave soon after and take a cab back to Baker Street—victims two and three were killed in alley ways, so walking is out of the picture at the moment.”

 

“Yeah, I could see why getting shanked on a dark street corner isn't exactly appealing.”

 

“I don't know how she finds flats, I assume she just follows but there's no way of being sure. I'll do everything I can to subtly ensure that she knows where I'm going.”

 

“Then she follows and we ambush, catching her in the attempt. Brilliant.”

  
“Very basic, actually. It's exactly what Scotland Yard would do, except they would probably take more precautions and mess everything up with their incompetence. Fortunately nothing complicated is required.”

 

“Well,” John sighed. “You should probably get back to it. We probably look like we're confessing our greatest secrets to each other. Speaking of which, we should probably discuss our intentions after this case.”

 

“Intentions?”

 

“You know exactly what I mean, don't pretend otherwise,” John grumbled, pulling back and plastering on a smile. “Go flirt with other alphas while I watch and contemplate homicide.”

 

“If you do decide to become a serial killer, please be interesting about it. I'm getting awfully sick of uninspired murderers. This case has been duller than I would have preferred. Although it did come attached to one John Watson, so I can't say that I'll complain too much about it.”

 

John's smile abruptly became more genuine. “Good luck.”

 

Sherlock turned away, met Tessa's livid gaze, and returned to the masses.

 

….......

 

Thirty excruciating minutes later, Sherlock was saying his goodbyes and taking his sweet time leaving the event. John had stormed off exactly ten minutes prior, attracting a decent amount of attention as he did so, and interest in 'Scott' had doubled in his absence.

 

He walked by Tessa and did a double take, as though he were recognizing her from somewhere. He approached her with an appropriate amount of hesitation in his smile, fixing his glasses as though he were self conscious.

 

“I'm sorry, but...don't we live right by each other?” he asked, trying to project a friendly but uncomfortable demeanor.

 

Tessa looked like she didn't even know what to say to him.

 

“Baker Street, right?” he asked, hoping that she would fall for the bait and try to be clever.

 

“Oh yeah,” she said, sounding extremely false. At least getting a confession out of her would be easy if this was the extent of her skills in deception. “I thought I recognized you? Where do you live again?”

 

“Two-two-one-bee,” Sherlock answered, clipping each word with excessively precise annunciation. “You're across the street, right?”

 

She was, fortunately, just rolling with it, nodding her head even as she refused to make eye contact. How she had managed to get inside Angela Stafford's flat was beyond him.

 

“Well, it was nice to see you,” Sherlock said. “You should stop by and say hi some time. We omegas have to stick together, after all,” he said with a cheeky wink. “I'm off now. See you around.”

 

God, the sooner he got to drop the guise of Scott Williams the better. He wondered if it was possible to die from overdosing on campy behavior.

 

He hailed a cab with ease, rattling off his address and shooting both John and Lestrade a text. He was on his way home. Hopefully, she took the excruciatingly obvious bait. If she didn't, then Sherlock wasn't even sure why he had devoted the last few days to this case because she obviously wasn't clever enough to deserve it.

 

Although, Sherlock mused, the tedious nature of the case was precisely why things with John had been able to develop to this point. A real riveting case, the kind that had him questioning everything he thought he knew about the criminal classes, would have ensured that he never paid the doctor a second glance.

 

As it was, John Watson was stationing himself at Baker Street, prepared to protect Sherlock and take down a killer. Just because Sherlock asked him to.

 

Most alphas would throw a fit if an omega tried to tell them what to do. (Although Sherlock would never admit it, that was precisely what started the animosity between him and Anderson.) John just smiled and followed orders. He didn't even do it like a soldier who had been trained to, he did it like he  _wanted_ to. He wanted to help and he respected Sherlock's judgment without question, gender be damned. 

 

Sherlock didn't want an alpha.

 

He didn't want a pushy, overbearing, horrifically protective, annoying person in his life who was constantly trying to tell him what to do. For Christ's sake, he already had a Mycroft, he didn't need another person trying to control him.

 

He didn't want to be owned, to be possessed. He didn't want to spend his days taking care of children and keeping a house clean. He didn't want to practice his 'yes, dear's and 'no dear's. He didn't want to do what was expected of him simply because it was expected with him.

 

Sherlock did, however, want companionship. He wanted someone at his side, someone who could keep up with him, or at least be content chasing after. He wanted a steady hand and an open smile. He wanted arms wrapped around his waist and woolen jumpers and cups of tea and sighing “Hm” every time Sherlock became a little too much to handle.

  
Sherlock didn't want an alpha.

 

Sherlock wanted a John Watson.

 

Well shit.

 

And he was pretty sure that there was a John Watson who wanted him too.

 

That wasn't the plan. That was the opposite of the plan. It was against everything he had ever wanted, ever decided for himself. And yet, it was sitting right there, staring at him without any doubt.

 

Sherlock wanted to give himself to John. He wanted it with a certainty that made his heart race fast in a way that only cocaine had before.

 

Actually, that was probably not very healthy and he should get that checked out.

 

_Excuse me doctor, but I appear to be experiencing arrhythmia when I think of my John. I think an EKG is probably in order. Also, could you just remove my heart so I stop having feelings?_

 

Sherlock sighed. Probably not an option. He was just going to face it. Sherlock wanted to bond with John. And he found himself very anxious over whether John wanted to bond with him as well.

 

….......

 

“I'm alone as of yet,” Sherlock announced when he entered the flat. “She didn't follow immediately.” Sherlock knew John was waiting upstairs, as discussed. He had sent a text while Sherlock was in the cab.

 

**Just arrived at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson let me in. I encouraged her to leave for the evening just in case. With her sister, apparently. --J**

 

Lestrade had also texted back.

 

**A BLOODY EXPLANATION AS TO WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING WOULD BE LOVELY, SHERLOCK. --Lestrade**

 

**I told you, we're catching a serial killer. Tessa Fitzsimmons. --SH**

 

**I GOT THAT, BUT I CAN HARDLY ORDER A STAKE OUT WITHOUT A REASON. --Lestrade.**

 

**Are you in place? --SH**

 

**YES BUT THATS HARDLY THE POINT –Lestrade**

 

**Stop with the unnecessary capitalization, I get the impression that you're yelling at me in a monotone. --SH**

 

**THATS THE INTENT YOU PRAT—Lestrade**

 

Sometimes Lestrade was not the most professional of police officers.

 

Sherlock moved to the windows, standing vigil until something happened. John crept down the stairs, nodded at Sherlock, conspicuously took out his Sig, and returned to his previous hiding spot.

 

All there was left to do not was wait.

 

After fifteen minutes, there was a buzz in Sherlock's pocket. He took out his mobile to read the text.

 

**Fitzsimmons just got out of a cab at the corner. Heading to 221. --Lestrade**

 

Sherlock pocketed the device and smiled.

 

The game was on.

 

“Battle stations,” Sherlock said quietly, knowing that John was on high alert and probably heard him. Sherlock stood for a little while longer, until he caught sight of the red hair. He shrugged out of his coat and took off the fake glasses, shedding the last of Scott Williams and bringing back Sherlock Holmes.

 

Poor girl really had no idea who she was dealing with.

 

He closed his eyes, let the adrenaline course through his veins as his sympathetic nervous system began operating at full capacity.

 

It was delicious, the rush, the natural high. This was why he did it. His heart was racing and his skin was tingling and he felt so  _alive_ that he could barely keep himself from racing down the stairs and ruining everything. 

 

Sherlock sent once last text as the buzzer sounded.

 

**Be prepared. --SH**

 

Let Lestrade seethe over the vague statement. Sherlock took a small satisfaction in the fact that Lestrade still had largely no idea what was happening, what Sherlock was intending to do.

 

After all, she had to be caught in the act, didn't she?

 

Sherlock rushed down to the front door and opened it up, feigning surprise when he saw Tessa. She gave him a crooked smile and cleared her throat.

 

“I'm locked out,” she said. “And, well, I thought 'I just found out Scott was here, so it's almost like fate' and I came here and...I'm sorry, I'm being awkward. Can I just crash on your couch until the locksmith opens in the morning? I know you don't know me and it's weird to let a stranger in--”

 

“Follow,” Sherlock ordered, not even trying to soften his tones into Scott's gentler cadence. He led her up the stairs to 221B, not bothering to keep an eye on her. She wouldn't attack yet, not until she knew they were alone. Not until she knew no one would hear a struggle.

 

“Jealousy...” Sherlock murmured. “It's often a motivator, but it's rarely this twisted. Why not hurt the alphas who have rejected you? Afraid to narrow your options?”

 

Tessa stood frozen in the sitting room.

 

“You're still young. You're an omega, someone would have mated you eventually,” Sherlock drawled out the last word. “The only omega signed into the Matchmaker data base over thirty is...well, me. An omega never stays single long, so why react so strongly, I wonder?”

 

Tessa swallowed and moved her hand slowly, like she was trying to be subtle about reaching into her coat pocket.

 

“It's not that I'm single,” she whispered. “It's that you... _scented,_ ” she spat the word like a curse, “and you _marked_ omegas already have what we've been looking for. It's selfish and cruel to rub it in our faces and prance around like you're dissatisfied that someone wants you. You don't deserve your alpha. You don't deserve any alpha.” 

 

“And you do?” Sherlock said, closing the distance. “Go on then, remove me from the equation. Make the unbelievable catch that is John Watson a free man again. Would you try and take him for yourself?” Sherlock let out an empty laugh. “You really would have to kill me, because I don't have any intention of sharing.”

 

Tessa snapped. She pulled a surgical scalpel from her pocket and lunged and Sherlock. He side stepped her easily. This wasn't what she usually did. She preferred to sneak up from behind and slit the throat first. Then, when the victim was down, the drained the other arteries. She was far too uncoordinated to manage a face to face assault. She did, however, manage to snag his sleeve, ripping the fabric and shallowly slicing into the skin of his forearm. It was, however, extremely superficial and he hardly noticed. It would be pathetically easy to detain her.

 

So, that being said, Sherlock didn't really need John to appear from nowhere, disarm the woman, and immobilize her on the ground, but he had to admit that John looked pretty cool when he did it. 

 

Sherlock sent Lestrade another text, and in moments it seemed like half the Met was suddenly in his flat. Tessa was being handcuffed (sobbing and struggling the entire time) and Sherlock answered tedious questions while the officers ran performing tasks they likely thought were necessary.

 

John stood to the side, answering a few questions curtly, and drawing as little attention to himself as possible. He looked uncomfortable, and territorial, but he hadn't fled as soon as he was no longer needed, so Sherlock took that as a plus.

 

In the middle of explaining everything to Lestrade, he caught John's eye and, without pausing in his speech, very deliberately tilted his head to the side, exposing the unmarked skin of his neck.

 

Presenting. The beginning of step five.

 

John's eyes abruptly widened. He licked his lips and adjusted his stance slightly, never removing his gaze from Sherlock.

 

Sherlock returned his attention to Lestrade, who was still taking notes, not having noticed anything unusual. Which was probably for the best. If he had seen anything, Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

 

Unfortunately, the exchange made Sherlock hyper aware of John's presence, so every second that passed waiting for the imbeciles of NSY to finish up and move on seemed to last an eternity onto itself.

 

Then finally,  _finally_ , after promising to give his statement in the morning (which, if everything went well, wouldn't actually happen), all of the tiresome officers finished and departed. The silence left behind in their wake was almost a sound in itself, it was so heavy and oppressive. 

 

Sherlock just turned to face John, one eyebrow raised, his neck still exposed—still an obvious invitation.

 

“Do you mean it?” John asked, not moving from his position on the other end of the room. “I know you don't want a mate. It might be a bit difficult to back out for a long time.”

 

“I'm not prone to indecision, John,” Sherlock snapped. “And I don't see any point in faffing about when I'm already sure of my desires. I don't want to be owned, true. I don't want to be the servile omega to the strong, dominant alpha, also true. However, you would not try to own me, to possess me. I can see that for myself. We are compatible, John.”

 

“This is a much bigger step than scenting. If I mark you--”

 

“It will mean everything. I am well aware. Scenting means nothing, as we have established already. I am interested in bonding, John. I honestly believe that there is not another alpha in this world better suited for me than you. You started this courtship, and now I'm ending it.” He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and exposed more of his neck. “I believe the ball is in your court.”

 

John looked unsure. “Sherlock, you were adamant about not wanting a bond.”

 

“That was ages ago.”

 

“That was last night.”

 

“Was it really?” Sherlock looked back on the last day. “The bakery was last night. It's been a long day.”

 

“I'll say,” John sighed. “I'm exhausted.”

 

“John.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you going to bite my neck or not?”

 

John considered Sherlock a little longer. “Aren't we supposed to...I don't know, talk about our future goals? Like, do you even want children? What are your plans for the next...decade or so?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I'd accepted not having any because I never wanted to be controlled by an alpha. However, I believe I would not mind raising a child, provided I had help. As for my plans, there's sort of a fork in the road, I believe is the proper metaphor. If you walk away, then I will continue as I have been, solving crimes and living in solitude. If you choose this, then I will spend the next ten years continuing as I have been, solving crimes, and enjoying your company. However, I believe I can also add a child to that equation easily enough. I don't have grand schemes, John. I am a creature of habit. Your decision simply dictates whether or not I will be alone.”

 

“Are you sure there wouldn't be anyone else?”

 

“Do you seriously think that there is a large pool of people who can even tolerate me as a person?”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “John, my brain moves very quickly. I can process data and reach conclusions faster than you can understand. When I make a decision, you can trust that I have thought it carefully through and I mean every word. I want to bond with you.”

 

“So you're positive?”

 

“John, this is getting tiresome.”

 

“I'm just making sure,” John grumbled, closing the distance between them and putting his hands on Sherlock's hips. “Yeah, I'd like to mark you. Hell yeah, actually. I'd like to mate you, then bond you, then breed you, then spend the rest of my life with you. And holy shite, we've only know each other for two days.” John looked a little lost at the thought.

 

“No point in wasting time just because other people can't comprehend that we can be so sure of each other in such a short acquaintance. If you like, we can wait until my natural heat. I'm due for it in two months.”

 

John laughed. “Well, life is short. And we don't exactly play it safe.”

 

“There's no telling what could happen in the next two months.”

 

“This might be our only chance.”

 

“Why risk it?” Sherlock asked, leaning down. John tilted his head up at the same time and when their lips met I was slow and achingly sweet and Sherlock just _knew._ Which was stupid because there is no scientific basis for intuition, but it was still true. He knew that he was making the right choice because John Watson was just perfect for him. 

 

Judging by John's enthusiasm as the kiss deepened and began to stray away from sweet and move towards nipping and tasting and biting and moaning, John felt the same way. Sherlock thought that was all the validation he needed.

 

John pulled away, kissing down Sherlock's jaw and neck, tasting the skin where his mark would go.

 

“I play the violin when I'm thinking,” Sherlock gasped, tugging ineffectually at John's clothes. “I can do nothing but speak or refuse to say a word for days. I experiment on human body parts when I'm bored.”

 

“Yeah, I bloody noticed that,” John said, pressing a kiss under Sherlock's jaw. “I did spend the day here. I nearly wet myself when I saw the severed head in the fridge.”

 

“I'm trying to break a smoking habit,” Sherlock continued. “And I used to do some...heavier drugs when I was younger, but I've been clean for years.”

 

That gave John a pause. “Well, so long as you're clean.”

 

“I am,” Sherlock assured him. “Although Lestrade stages fake drug busts occasionally just to annoy me. I also have a very irritating older brother who likes to kidnap people to make a point. But I try to ignore him, so don't worry. My parents are alive but I don't speak with them regularly. I have been called a sociopath and with reason. I say horrible things without conscience, but I will try not to do that to you.”

 

“Uh,” John thought quickly. “My parents are dead. My dad used to hit me and my sister. Harry's a drinker and a little too possessive over her mate, Clara. I've got a dodgy shoulder. I'm unemployed, I suffer from PTSD, awful nightmares, and I tend to go for my gun a bit too quickly. I've got a right awful temper, but it takes a lot to set it off, although it doesn't make me violent, I'm completely unreasonable when I'm in a strop. I also think that I _might_ addicted to danger.”

 

“I think I can manage all that.” Sherlock smiled. “Don't change my faults and I won't change yours.”

 

“Deal.”

 

“Even though you don't take sugar in your coffee.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Sherlock smiled and kissed John again. “Bedroom, I think. Might be more comfortable.”

 

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

 

“ _Yes._ And we keep stopping to talk. It's getting annoying.”

 

John gave a little nip to Sherlock's bottom lip. “Bossy,” he murmured, his voice warm and fond.

 

Sherlock took John's hand and led him down the hall. He pushed open the door and nudged John towards the bed while he finished unbuttoning his shirt. The silk fell to the ground with a whisper. Sherlock turned to see John watching him, perched on the edge of the bed.

 

“Gorgeous,” John said, his voice low and rough. “Absolutely gorgeous. Christ, I'm the luckiest man in the entire fucking world.”

 

“Strip,” Sherlock ordered, trying to hide his blush.

 

“Bossy,” John repeated.

 

“John, take off your clothes,” Sherlock huffed in irritation, fumbling with his own belt buckle.

 

“I love that you're really taking the time to seduce me. I feel so cherished.”

 

“Of the two of us,” Sherlock said, finally coming over to wrestle John's jumper off himself, “which one has zero sexual experience?”

 

“I'm assuming you mean you. We haven't actually had that conversation.”

 

“Correct. So, since I am the one who would, under normal circumstances be hesitant, the fact that I'm trying to actually _start this_ is reason enough for you to stop talking and remove your trousers.”

 

“Fine,” John sighed. He relaxed in passive acceptance.

 

Which was just a ruse, one that Sherlock fell for, because the next instant Sherlock found himself pinned to the mattress by a very strong, very aroused alpha.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said out of some strange, startled reflex.

 

John laughed. “Salutations. I'm going to rip off your trousers, kiss every inch of your body, then mark you, now. Would that be acceptable?”

 

Sherlock swallowed. “Very.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

John started. All remaining clothes were shed so quickly it had to be some sort of world record. In moments Sherlock was a writhing, whining mess beneath John's hands and tongue.

 

He felt absolutely taken apart. All rational thought left his mind. Everything else was a constant hum of  _ want need yes John.  _

 

John brought his lips back to Sherlock's mouth and kissed him deep and slow. Sherlock squirmed and dug his finger nails into John's back, leaving indentations and scratches. Sherlock thought that it was only fair, considering he was about to be marked permanently with John's teeth.

 

John's mouth moved to Sherlock's neck, licking at the scent glands, preparing the site for his bond. Sherlock started thrusting his hips up. John lined them up and met him in the middle, matching his rhythm and fitting their bodies together like the corresponding pieces to a puzzle.

 

Sherlock was lost in a haze of pleasure and skin sliding against skin. He was distantly aware that he was babbling, but for the life of him he had no idea what he was saying.

 

“Christ,” John gasped. “Christ, I'm close. Sherlock, are you  _ sure _ ? This is the last chance to say no.” 

 

“John, for fuck's sake.”

 

“Sorry,” John laughed. He sped up his movements and Sherlock followed in suit, feeling his pleasure coil tightly in his abdomen, begging for release, when John finally sunk his teeth into the delicate flesh of Sherlock's throat.

 

It hurt. More than a bit. Which was an appropriate response, Sherlock felt, to having one's neck bitten deep enough to leave a lasting scar.

 

But at the same time, John was moaning and shaking and coming on Sherlock's stomach, so the pain slowly faded and mixed with pleasure as Sherlock followed John, crying out and drawing blood himself. Sherlock distantly noted that the deep scratches on John's back would require disinfectant. Sherlock's saliva lacked the enzyme that John's contained, so while Sherlock's brand new bond bite was safe from infection, John's back was not.

  
All of this was noted in the tiny portion of Sherlock's brain that had remained cognizant during his orgasm. He kindly told that part of the brain to shut the fuck up because it was putting a damper on Sherlock's state of bliss.

 

So that was what sex was like. Well. He had just wasted fifteen years of repressed sexual desire. He resolved to begin making that up as soon as possible. Hopefully John had a short refractory period.

 

John licked and worried at the bite until the pain turned into a dull throb. He rolled off but stayed tucked close to Sherlock's side which was, in Sherlock's opinion, exactly where he belonged.

 

“So what now?” John asked, still breathing heavily.

 

“Hormones in your saliva will trigger my heat,” Sherlock answered when he regained his ability to speak. “We have a few hours before that, though, to eat and drink and sleep and forbid anyone from bothering us for a few days. Once I go into heat, the bond is consummated and reinforced. If not, my body undergoes a lot of stress that could be very dangerous, so we'll need to have penetrative intercourse as soon as possible.”

 

“You don't need to convince me to fuck you, love.”

 

Sherlock couldn't believe he was blushing. After what they had just done, he was blushing. He cleared his throat. “Then I either conceive a child and the heat ends, or it continues for a few days until it passes naturally. Once it ends, you pack up your things and move in here, we finally go to Lestrade to give our statements several days late just to bother him, and Mycroft takes the opportunity to kidnap you and tell you that if you hurt me no one will find your body.”  
  


“What does your brother do exactly?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“Well, shit.”

 

“Indeed.”

  
There was a brief pause. “So, do you want to?” John finally asked.

 

“Want to what?”

 

“Have a baby.”

 

Sherlock was quiet. “Not yet,” he finally decided.

 

John nodded. “Thought so. Probably best that we settle a bit before we throw a child into the mix.”

 

“We'll have to buy some contraceptives, then,” Sherlock sighed, getting up. “I'll get it. Go buy some food. We've only got a few hours before we have sex for three days straight. We need to build up our strength.”

 

“I'm exhausted just thinking about it,” John sighed, although there was a small smile on his face. Sherlock examined his mate for a moment before heading to the bathroom to clean himself off. Afterward he got dressed and located his mobile among the abandoned clothing. He sent Lestrade a text.

 

**Going into heat. Will be unable to give statement for several days. What a shame. --SH**

 

Lestrade's response was almost immediate, despite the late hour.

 

**Fuck you Sherlock. --Lestrade**

 

Sherlock smiled. He had convinced a stranger to move in with him, caught a serial killer with minimal effort, bonded with the only alpha who could ever possibly love him, and annoyed Lestrade to the point of vulgarity.

 

Today had been a good day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me for updates, excerpts, and ficlets at emptycel.tumblr.com.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [writes smut, rereads it skeptically for three days, shrugs and posts it anyway.]

“ _The bond is the most important part of courtship. Should the two fail to mate after the omega has been marked, it could ruin all further attempts at bonding in the future.”_

 

… _......_

 

Sherlock went to get contraceptives and heat aids (John wasn't sure what that would entail, exactly), while John went to get groceries and bottled water to stock the bedroom with. This wasn't the first time he'd spent a heat with an omega (although then it had been an army mate whose batch of suppressants had been bad and they'd spent the entire thing with the omega's neck in a brace so John wouldn't accidentally bite it) so he knew what to expect. He knew, however, that Sherlock had never spent his heat with an alpha before, so John was being extra careful about what he thought they might need.

 

Even natural heats were rough on an omega. Induced heats were, apparently, a nightmare. John prayed that it would make the bond an immediate regret for either of them.

 

He wandered the area until he found a convenience store that was open at two in the morning. He shopped as quickly as possible, eager to get back to the flat and Sherlock.

 

John swallowed hard at the thought. Maybe the detective was already there, waiting for John, undressed and slick and he slid deeper into his heat.

 

John had to stop in his tracks and physically pull himself back together before he could embarrass himself in the middle of the store.

 

He checked out in record time and walked back as quickly as he could with his arms full of groceries, praying that no one decided to mug him, tonight of all nights. He was confident that he could fend off any rogue muggers, but he didn't want to delay for even a moment.

 

And so he hurried, bags in hand and his destination in mind. He was practically running and knew that he must look ridiculous, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Especially not after he finally managed to step foot inside 221 again. It was as though he ran face first into a wall of pure scent. Sherlock had returned, and his heat was definitely starting to set in.

 

John launched himself up the staircase and crashed through the flat, bumping into about seven different things on to way to Sherlock's bedroom.

 

Right before he kicked down the door, he stopped himself. He took a deep, cleansing breath, and very calmly knocked on the door.

 

“ _Now,_ John!” Sherlock ordered through the wood.

 

John smiled and pushed the door open, setting the shopping down just inside the room.

 

And almost passed out from sheer lust when he saw Sherlock splayed across the bed, fingering himself and squirming across the sheets.

 

“Holy Christ,” John breathed. “Just _look at you_.”

 

“Yes, I'm sure I am quite the spectacle,” Sherlock snapped. “Stop staring and fuck me.”

 

He didn't have to ask John twice. The alpha stripped in record time and knelt on the bed, just in front of Sherlock's feet.

 

“Condoms?” John asked while he still had his higher brain functions.

 

Sherlock indicated to a shopping bag next to the bed with a flick of his chin. John scrambled to the side, rummaged clumsily through the bag (trying not to think about the odd assortment of things he found there), before grasping the box of condoms as though it was the prize at the end of a treasure hunt. He fumbled with the packaging until he finally ripped through the foil with his teeth and slid the latex on his alarmingly rigid length, nearly humiliating himself by almost coming as he did so.

 

“Don't you _fucking dare_ ,” Sherlock groaned, having watched the embarrassing proceedings with annoyance, impatience, and what looked like a drop of amusement. “You don't get to come until I do.”

 

“Shit,” John gasped, moving so that he knelt between Sherlock's legs. “How long have you been like this?”

 

“I'm not in heat,” Sherlock corrected, following John's train of thought. “Not yet, not for a few hours. My body is preparing itself at the moment. If I were in heat....we wouldn't be talking right now.”

 

“Well,” John said, pulling in a shaky breath. “Nice of your body to give us a chance to do this _before_ we turn to mindless, rutting animals.”

 

“Indeed. You'll need lubricant,” Sherlock added. “I'm not producing my own as of yet. There's a tube on the night stand.”

 

John grabbed the bottle and squeezed a generous amount into his hand, likely more than he would ever actually need.

 

“I already started,” Sherlock pointed out. John snorted, as if he hadn't noticed what Sherlock had been doing this entire time. “I might be a virgin, but I'm not _that_ tight.”

 

“Better safe than sorry. And, not to toot my own trumpet, but as an alpha--”

 

“Yes, yes, you have a massive cock. I noticed. Flattered?”

 

John thought for a moment. “Yes,” he decided finally. “Now move, it's my turn.”

 

Sherlock withdrew his fingers with a small, hissing inhalation. John made sure that the lube had warmed before he replaced them with his own. Sherlock let out a moan and slowly relaxed under John's touch.

 

John sought out Sherlock's lips and sighed in contentment when they touched. He resisted Sherlock's attempts to speed it up, to make it something rough and biting and passionate. He kept it loving and slow, taking his time and trying to convey how much he wanted this, wanted Sherlock.

 

After a few more moments, Sherlock stopped trying to take control and melted beneath John. John pulled back, stared into Sherlock's eyes, and smiled slightly when he finally found Sherlock's prostate. He ran his fingers over it lightly, teasingly, and Sherlock yelped, his back arching off the bed.

 

“Keyed up, are we?”

 

“I hate you,” Sherlock gasped. “You are evil. You are absolutely evil. Stop teasing me.”

 

“Just making sure you're stretched and ready,” John said, feigning innocence.

 

“You won't last much longer,” Sherlock pointed out. “If you don't do something soon--”

 

John slid in a third finger to shut Sherlock up. The omega cut off with a moan, squirming slightly in discomfort.

 

“If this feels like too much, you'd be in agony if I tried to force my cock in you. Now stop your fussing and enjoy the finger fuck.”

 

Sherlock groaned. “John....please....”

 

“Fuck,” John cursed, trying to think of something, anything, to pull back from the edge. He settled on thinking about Douche-y McArseFace, and his glee in never having to encounter him again.

 

Although, he might like to shove the bond mark in his face, just once. In fact, John wanted to parade Sherlock around to any alpha who had ever attempted to court the omega, just to gloat over the fact that he won. That Sherlock was _his_. _His_ mate. _His_ omega.

 

John was more than a little lost to alpha instinct when he pulled his fingers out and lined up his cock, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under Sherlock's hips just before he did so to give him a better angle.

 

“Tell me if it's too much,” he managed to gasp. “Don't you dare let me hurt you.”

 

“John. Just do it. _Please._ ”

 

John pushed passed the initial resistance and tried to ease himself in as slowly as he could. And _Christ_ Sherlock was tight. There was no way that felt good for the omega. He immediately stopped, wishing that he had kept a hold of his patience and prepared Sherlock more.

 

“John, _more_ ,” Sherlock complained, trying to thrust his hips forward.

 

John saw was he was doing right before he did it and managed to hold the omega's hips down. “Don't even try,” John warned. “Get used to the feel of me first.”

 

“I want all of you,” Sherlock whined, breathless. “ _Please_.”

 

John was starting to lose Sherlock to the heat. The man wasn't in the right frame of mind to stop John if he went too far. John pulled out, trying to debate which was worse: taking Sherlock when his mind was ready for him but his body wasn't prepared enough, or leaving Sherlock to tear at his skin in desperate need.

 

“My John,” Sherlock sobbed. “Please. I want my John.”

 

That pretty much settled the question.

 

John decided to mollify his conscience by smearing more lube up and down his shaft. He pinned Sherlock's hips down and moved as slowly as he could make himself, watching for any sign of discomfort or pain. Sherlock merely gasped, panted, begged, and urged John further with whimpers and moans.

 

John paused once he was in as far as he was going to get. He gave an experimental thrust, trying to judge how far he could take it before he was pushed off the edge.

 

Sherlock practically _screamed_ in pleasure when that one thrust accidentally smashed directly into his prostate. The taller man wrapped his legs around John's waist and hooked his ankles together, urging John to thrust and to thrust deep.

 

John obliged, setting a slow pace, moving as far in as he could without hurting Sherlock, rubbing the man's prostate every few thrusts, desperately trying to restrain the alpha portion of his mind, the portion that wanted to fuck hard and brutal, to mark and claim with nails and teeth.

 

Sherlock's hips met his, moving with him as the tempo gradually began to increase.

 

They lost control by increments. Before very long John had gone from gently moving with his lover to pounding into the man, seeking their release. Sherlock started to babble as he neared climax.

 

“John,” he gasped. “Want you. Want to keep you. Oh _God_. Yes. Please. I want your knot. I want your pups. John John _John_.”

 

Sherlock's eyes went wide, as though he were surprised. His back lifted off the bed as he arched his spine, twisting, shaking, shuddering, and writhing as he spilled his seed between the two of them, sobbing his release and digging his nails deep into John's back.

 

It was the most gorgeous thing John had ever seen.

 

Then Sherlock's abdominal muscles really clamped down, and John followed, finally over taken by a wave of pleasure so strong it was almost pain.

 

When he came back to himself, both of them were gasping for the same air, limbs completely wrapped around each other, the last of the aftershocks ripping through them until their heart rates finally began to slow.

 

John gripped the base of the condom and pulled out slowly, wincing in sympathy when Sherlock let out a high, keening whine of oversensitivity.

 

Neither of them said anything as John disposed of the latex and stumbled to the bathroom to find a flannel and wipe them off.

 

He relaxed back on the bed, next to Sherlock, playing with the detective's fingers for a few moments before Sherlock finally spoke.

 

“I can't wait to see what happens when my heat fully settles in an hour.”

 

John started laughing and Sherlock joined him after a brief pause. The two giggled and somehow ended up wrapped around each other, Sherlock's head tucked under John's chin.

 

“I can smell it getting stronger,” John said after a second. “You're still with me, right? I lost you for a bit back there.”

 

“Still here,” Sherlock grumbled. “Though not for much longer. Next time I lose it, I won't be back for a few days.”

 

John pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. “I'll take care of you.”

 

“That's your job,” Sherlock stated. He pulled away slightly to look at John with a teeny tiny smile. “You're my alpha.”

 

John felt his eyes fill, but he refused to let the tears fall. Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate that particular expression of sentiment. But still, knowing that he was someone's alpha, and not just anyone's but _Sherlock's_ , was a very powerful thought.

 

“I'm still not your housewife,” Sherlock added as he tucked his head back into place. “If you tell me to make you a sandwich, be forewarned that I am familiar with nearly every poison known to man.”

 

“If anyone is making the food in this relationship, it's me,” John assured him. He cringed at the thought. “We should probably live on takeaway, though.”

 

“For the best,” Sherlock agreed quickly, horrified at the idea of John cooking.

 

The fear was justified.

 

…......

 

When John woke up, it was to Sherlock rubbing his genitals all over him.

 

There were worse ways to start your morning.

 

“Still there, love?” John asked, pulling Sherlock into his arms.

 

The man grunted and continued to rut.

 

“Well, if you're gone, I've only got a few minutes. Let me find the condoms before we take things even faster than we've already managed to.”

 

“My mate,” Sherlock growled, nosing at he scent glands at the back of John's neck. “My alpha. Strong alpha. Knot me. Breed me. Fill me with pups.”

 

“Yeah, no, we had that discussion,” John said mildly, breathing through his mouth before he lost his mind to the scent of the pheromones. It was a testament to iron self control that he hadn't already started fucking Sherlock senseless.

 

He finally managed to hunt down the box of condoms, trying to maneuver with both a massive erection and a consulting detective plastered to his body. He fumbled with the packaging while trying to keep Sherlock from just sinking down onto his cock.

 

“No, love,” John said, his breathing ragged at the alpha in the back of his mind screaming at him to pin the omega down and fill him with his seed. “Get on all fours. I can knot you that way. You want me to knot you, yeah?”  
  


“My alpha,” Sherlock said fondly, nuzzling John's collarbone for a moment before complying. John managed to slide the condom in place without ripping it (truly a miracle) and settled himself behind Sherlock.

 

The omega was in full heat, lubrication dripping down his thighs, his skin hot and feverish to the touch.

 

“Don't worry, love,” John murmured, slipping his fingers in easily and relishing Sherlock's moan of relief. “I've got you. Wow, you're already loose for me. Ready love?”

 

“Mate, bond, knot, breed,” Sherlock panted.

 

John took that as a yes and sunk in. Sherlock began the first shudders of climax with John's third thrust. The alpha had to admit that he was relieved Sherlock wasn't going to last long. His knot was already swelling and if he didn't get Sherlock in soon, it was never going to happen.

 

He trusted hard for another minute, deliberately avoiding Sherlock's prostate as he did so, knowing that the two of them would have to climax together to form a strong bond.

 

Sherlock whined as John started trying to push his knot through. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have taken it slower or just stopped altogether, but the alpha brain was running the show, and the only thing he cared about was getting his knot into the gorgeous omega before him.

 

John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and used that to push back as he thrust his hips forward hard. The second his knot was through, it swelled until they were stuck. The most John could do was rock back and forth, grinding against Sherlock's prostate until the omega yelped and came.

 

John acted quickly, sinking his teeth back into the bond mark and pushing in as far as he could. Sherlock's clamping muscles were enough to send him over the edge, and he came as soon as he tasted blood in his mouth.

 

He released the skin from between his teeth, licking at it until it stopped bleeding. This time his saliva would carry a hormone that would cause the site to scar very quickly, permanently marking Sherlock as John's.

 

He gathered the man into his arms and eased them onto their sides, trying to keep them as comfortable as possible while they were stuck.

 

A second orgasm washed through him as Sherlock stretched like a cat, settling in for a long wait.

 

“I can feel you,” Sherlock murmured. “It will be a bloody miracle if that condom doesn't rip from the sheer amount of spunk.”

 

“Yeah, well, two orgasms down,” John sighed. “Another one-to-four to go.”

 

“And then we can go again,” Sherlock sighed, content. “Can I bottom from the top next time?”

 

John agreed and came again.

 

….......

 

Three days later they were exhausted, dehydrated, and starving.

 

But they were bonded.

 

And they hadn't killed each other yet.

 

Sherlock spent the first day out of his heat sending a multitude of text messages and yelling at nothing when the responses he received annoyed him. He would have gone to Scotland Yard or Bart's, but he found it a tad uncomfortable to do much more than sit very carefully on the softest furniture he could find.

 

John spent the first day out of the heat in the most epic walk of shame in recorded history. He returned to Harry's house to pack the rest of his things, trying to will his blush away as he explained everything that had happened.

 

His sister's smug attitude made John very happy that he had somewhere else to live.

 

“I told you Matchmaker was a good idea.”

 

“Fuck off, Harry.”

 

He unpacked his things in the second bedroom, although they had already decided to share Sherlock's, they both felt it best that John have his own space while they both got used to each other.

 

Both of them spent the first day acclimating to feeling each other's strong emotions through their bond. John felt Sherlock's slight distress that everything had moved so quickly, but that was often drowned out by the constant feeling of...surprise? Surprise that John was still there, that he wasn't a dream, a figment of Sherlock's imagination.

 

Sherlock felt John's possessiveness, his constant desire to mark and claim and keep Sherlock from everyone else. He also felt John push that away and give Sherlock all the space he wanted. Sherlock felt the admiration and respect that poured from John.

 

They both felt, mirrored in each other, the beginnings of a terrifying, all consuming love that neither of them had ever known before.

 

In that first day they got in two shouting matches and one unnamed detective threw a sulk of such epic proportions that John finally cracked and sucked the omega off just to snap him out of it.

 

In that first day they were visited by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who took their statements, gave awkward congratulations, and generally seemed horrified by the entire situation.

 

In that first evening John was abducted when he went to pick up dinner and brought to a warehouse in on the edge of the city. Mycroft Holmes said vaguely threatening things and enjoyed the sound of his own voice for several minutes before John made a rude hand gesture and stalked off.

 

Mycroft called Sherlock to complain about this and found himself on the receiving end of the most genuine laughter he had heard from Sherlock since they were both children.

 

In that first evening, Mrs. Hudson made them tea and asked some very inappropriate questions about omega and alpha mating habits. John stammered and tried to avoid the situation, but Sherlock answered with such open honesty that even Mrs. Hudson felt slightly embarrassed. John scolded Sherlock for it, but they ended up snogging on the couch for several minutes, so the effect of the chastisement was rather lost.

 

In that first evening, they ate themselves sick on Indian food, still trying to get their strength back up, and argued about who would clean up.

 

John cleaned up.

 

Sherlock watched his alpha do housework and felt a very smug sense of satisfaction knowing that he had successfully broken his most hated stereotype. He had to admit that until that moment he had still harbored the fear that John would try to own him, to control him.

 

He was so pleased with the whole thing that he went into the kitchen and hugged John from behind while he did the dishes. John never said anything. He just continued to clean up while a lanky omega clung to him. If he happened to let his self control slip and break into an enormous smile, no one saw.

 

That first night, Sherlock played the violin. John commented on each piece, and Sherlock mentally recorded his alpha's preferences. Soon John was getting sleepy, and was nodding off in the chair that had very quickly become his.

 

Sherlock gently put his violin away and helped his love to bed.

 

In that first night, the two did not make love. They did not move together beneath their sheets and exchange words of devotion and affection. They simply held each other as close as they possibly could, both lost in wonder and thinking himself the luckiest man in the entire world.

 

That first night they slept, truly safe, truly happy, and truly loved for the first time in their lives.

 

…......

 

“Ah, paperwork,” John sighed. “I did not miss this about being a doctor. I've been enjoying my paperwork-free days.”   
  
“All you have to do is sign,” Sherlock said, handing his mate a pen. “We've already dealt with everything else. Vows, witnesses. I can't believe Mycroft showed up.”

 

John laughed at the look of utter revulsion on Sherlock's face.   
  


“You should be happy. I actually told Harry and I couldn't get her to come. Clara was in heat, though, so I guess it can't be blamed.” John scrawled his messy doctor's signature on the dotted lines Sherlock indicated, capping the pen with a sense of finality.

 

“There we go,” John said, wondering if he should feel different.

 

“There we go,” Sherlock agreed, looking at the pile of papers.

 

Both of them looked at the solicitor sitting at his desk. John scooted the pile to him. The solicitor signed his name as well and said some legal things that John didn't pay attention to. He just stared at Sherlock instead, wondering if he should feel any different.

 

Once everything was finished and they were headed back home in a cab, John finally voiced his thoughts.

 

“Am I supposed to feel different?”

 

“I don't think so...” Sherlock said sounding unsure.   
  
“I mean, I thought being married would feel different.”

 

“Well, we already were sort of married.”

 

“True,” John conceded. “But now it's legal and everything. I just thought...I don't know. I thought I would feel married. I guess I've felt married for three months already, though, so I guess I'm just used to it.”

 

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock said, yawning. “We could have sex on the couch, commemorate the event.”

 

“You haven't slept in two days,” John pointed out. “You're going into heat in less than a week. You need to start saving up your strength.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. John raised an eyebrow.

 

“What?” he asked, watching his omega struggle with something. He could feel Sherlock's warring anxiety and desire warring through the bond.

 

“What do you think about cutting the heat short?” Sherlock finally asked, not meeting John's eyes.

 

It took John an embarrassingly long amount of time to understand.

 

_I either conceive a child and the heat ends, or it continues for a few days until it passes naturally._

 

Cutting the heat short....

 

John smiled. “Brilliant.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been married before, so I just made some stuff up. If it's wrong, just pretend it's all part of the AU. 
> 
> emptycel.tumblr.com for updates, excerpts, and ficlets.


	7. Six Inappropriate Places to Take Your Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John decide to compete to see who can find the worst place to take their baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After The Sign of Three, I feel like John would not actually name his child Hamish, so I decided to come up with my own. 
> 
> Where Silas came from, I'm not sure, except that I also thought that Sherlock would refuse his child an overly common name. 
> 
> So. Yeah. Silas. I think it works.

Six Inappropriate Places to Take Your Baby

 

“ _Alphas and Omegas are extraordinarily protective of their pups. They go out of their way to shelter them, often refusing to let the child outside until they are several years old. However, some Alphas and Omegas are the opposite, bringing their pups everywhere and anywhere, believing them safe only when they have them by their side.”_

 

Sherlock yawned, feeling a surge in relief as Silas's breathing finally changed and he fell asleep on Sherlock's chest. Thank God. Newborn babies had worse sleep schedules than Sherlock did. Now he finally had the chance to catch up on some rest...

 

His phone started buzzing and Sherlock could have cried. Carefully moving his weight so he wouldn't disturb the baby, he checked his messages.

 

**I know you're busy, but could you spare a few minutes to check out a crime scene? --Lestrade**

 

Sherlock was tempted but exhausted. It would have to be an eight  _ at least _ to get him out of the house and way from his baby. 

 

As much as he abhorred being a slave to instinct, he couldn't quite bring himself to part from his son unless he knew that John would be the one holding him. But considering he hadn't left the flat in a week, it might be a good idea to go.

 

**What is it? SH**

 

Provided that John came home soon. He wasn't quite ready to leave Silas with Mrs. Hudson.

 

**Locked room murder. But weird. --Lestrade**

 

**Elaborate SH**

 

**Two sets of severed hands, grasping each other in greeting. Each hand is from a different person. None of the hands belong to the dead woman. --Lestrade**

 

Sherlock was on his feet and looking for his shoes in seconds, Silas still tucked against his chest. He contemplated the sleeping infant for a moment before deciding that his son was going to have to get used to crime scenes at some point. He had intended to wait until Silas was over seven days old, but it was best to start them young anyway.

 

He texted John what he was doing and hoped that he didn't find child protective services waiting for him when he returned home.

 

Miraculously, Silas was still asleep when Sherlock bundled him up and maneuvered him into the carrier. He asked Lestrade for the address and went out the door, hailing a cab and showing his son the city as it truly was for the first time.

 

 

Lestrade did not approve of a newborn baby boy at a crime scene. Some of the other officers were frozen in horror when Sherlock proudly presented Silas to them, and he was ninety percent sure that Donovan was actually calling child protective services.

 

“John was out,” Sherlock said by way of explanation. “I expect that it has something to do with our anniversary.”

 

“I can't believe someone managed to tolerate you for a year, Freak,” Anderson snapped as he took pictures of the severed hands. “But I have to admit that I'm more stuck on the fact that you took a _baby_ to a _crime scene._ ”

 

“I've got to agree with Anderson on this one, Sherlock,” Lestrade said in his no nonsense tone. “Get that baby home. We'll solve it without you.”

 

“No you won't,” Sherlock sighed, pushing past them and setting Silas's carrier down near the dead woman. “And his name is Silas, not 'baby.'”

 

“The Freak's mate is on his way,” Donovan announced, putting he mobile away. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Well, at least she hadn't been calling people with the power to legally remove his child from his care.

 

“She wasn't murdered,” Sherlock announced, ignoring everyone but Silas, who was making very sleepy cooing noises from his carrier. “Powder burns on her hands. She shot herself in the heart, but tried to make it look like someone else did. ”

 

“Where's the gun, then?” Anderson snapped.

 

“She obviously wasn't _alone_ ,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Someone else was with her and took the gun. Set up the hands, too. I have the feeling that the hands are just for show, likely stolen from a morgue and placed here just to confuse you lot. Her accomplice left via the window. I saw outside that there were small indentations in the dirt. Someone placed a ladder to get to the third story. Took it with them when they left.”

 

“Would someone have reported stolen hands?” Lestrade asked.

 

“If they were stolen from Bart's, Molly would have assumed I took them and cover it up for me. Such is her habit. She's given up on being my mate, but now I think she's gunning for the position of Silas's godmother.”

 

Lestrade blinked and worked through the information before evidently deciding it would be best to move on. “But why make a suicide this complicated?”

 

“They obviously wanted to pin the suicide as a murder on someone. I'm sure once you identify the woman, she's a marine biologist, by the way, she will have a very helpful friend or family member that will point out a lot of evidence to pin the death on the woman's boyfriend.”

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“Yes, he was very abusive. Got her addicted to drugs, stole all her money, physically beat her and emotionally tore her down until she felt suicide was the only option. Helpful friend or family member probably tried to talk her out of it originally, but once he or she, I'm leaning towards a she, saw that the victim would not be persuaded, decided to convince her to put on a show and make the bastard pay instead.”

 

Lestrade sort of just stared at nothing, not even twitching when Silas started to cry.

 

Sherlock unbuckled him from the carrier and cradled him close. “Shh, love. You're alright. Yes, you're correct. There _are_ hotlines for this situation. Yes, the woman did have other options. Hm? Oh, I think she felt scared and hopeless and alone.”

 

“Are you talking to your baby?” Donovan asked incredulously.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What else would you have me do? Poke him from a distance? Of course I speak to him. I'm attempting to determine if avoiding all forms of 'baby talk' will lead him to fluency earlier than normal.”

 

“He's a week old.”

 

“And I like to talk to him,” Sherlock agreed. “Oh, look, Silas. Daddy's here. Oh, he looks very angry. That's not good.”

 

John stormed into the room, clutching the shopping he went out to get in his hands.

 

“What the hell are you doing? You're taking our child, _your son_ , to a murder scene without consulting with me?!”

 

“It's a suicide,” Sherlock corrected. “And it wasn't as interesting as it should have been. Also, I sent you a text.”

 

“Your text said, and I quote, 'I'm going out with Silas. I'll be home soon.' You didn't mention a crime scene, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “It's not dangerous.”

 

“That isn't the point!” John shook his head. “This is an important milestone for him. You should have waited for me!”

 

John met Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock used ever once of his acting ability to keep an enormous smile off his face. “Baby's first crime scene.”

 

“The world will someday fear the name of Silas Watson-Holmes,” John reminded him. “We should have taken pictures to commemorate the event.”

 

Sherlock finally laughed and John joined him, to the horror of every officer in attendance.

 

“God,” John sighed, shaking his head. “We're going to have him taken away from us. Come here, love. I'll take the baby, you do your thing,” John said, setting the shopping down and accepting the still-sleepy Silas. “Hello there,” John said as Silas opened up his big blue eyes. “You're right, his eyes are getting lighter.”

 

“I win genetics,” Sherlock declared drily “To the victors go the spoils. I shall be the favorite parent.”

 

“Good luck with that one.”

 

“Are you really alright with this?” Donovan asked John when she thought Sherlock stopped listening.

 

“Yeah,” John replied. “I mean, it's indoors. It's not dangerous. Sherlock would never put Silas in a situation where he could be hurt.”

 

“This is a bit disturbing for a child though,” Sally insisted.

 

“Probably,” John conceded. “But we read him medical textbooks as bedtime stories. It's already inevitable that he won't be the most normal child. We're giving Silas an environment where he's allowed to be as weird as he wants to be. If he says he doesn't like crime scenes, we won't take him to crime scenes. That's sort of all there is to it.”

  
“You're going to psychologically damage your son.”

 

“Sally, I'm an alpha. My instincts wouldn't _let_ me keep my pup anywhere he shouldn't be. Crime scenes are a part of who we are. And I sincerely doubt that this will be the most inappropriate place we will take him.”

 

“Don't make it a challenge, John,” Sherlock called up from his examination of the hands. “That isn't one you will win.”

 

“Probably not,” John agreed. “But I bet I could hold my own.”

 

…........

 

“Sherlock!” John called, patting Silas's back and looking around for his ridiculous husband. “Sherlock!”

 

John found a note on the table.

 

**Made a major breakthrough. Will be a Bart's. Text if you need me.**

 

John sighed, happy that Sherlock had at least thought to leave something behind. He had to admit that he had probably been expecting too much in assuming that Sherlock remembered that John was supposed to be going out with some of the rugby lads for a pint.

 

Mrs. Hudson was out as well. John really wanted to take an evening off, but he couldn't leave Silas behind. But he hadn't seen the lads in years....but a baby really was a much higher priority...

 

John resigned himself to an evening in with the baby when he remembered the pseudo challenge from a few days ago.

 

It might not be more inappropriate than a crime scene, but John knew what his move was going to be.

 

 

 

Greg had given Sherlock one of those strap on baby holster-things at the baby shower, knowing that neither or them would stop doing things just because they had an infant. Sherlock refused to use it because he said it made him look like a koala, but John liked having his hands free when he was watching the baby. And since the thing was made for newborns, Silas would outgrow it before too long and John liked getting use out of things before they became obsolete.

 

Armed with a diaper bag and with an alert infant slobbering all over his chest, John went to the pub.

 

 

“Sorry, mates, got stuck baby sitting,” he announced as he entered the establishment. “But I made it.” He took a mental role call of everyone present. There was Arthur, Nick, Mark, Roger, Evan, Brad, and...was the Craig there off to the side?

 

“Oy! Johnny! It's true then?” Roger said as a way of greeting. “Three Continents Watson really got mated and had a pup?”

 

“If not, then you should be concerned that I have a baby with me,” John pointed out. “I doubt it would go over well if he wasn't mine.”

 

Arthur leaned over the table, sloshing his pint in the process, trying to get a better look at Silas. “He's just a wee thing, isn't he?”

 

“Ten days old,” John agreed, working Silas out of the pouch so he could show him off more effectively. “Meet Silas Hamish Watson-Holmes. Looks more like his Papa than me.” Every day Silas's eyes grew lighter and greyer. And the shockingly thick mop of tufted black hair spoke for itself.

 

Most of the lads were alphas, and there was a distinct current of jealousy at the mention of Sherlock. “I'd heard you found yourself an omega,” Mark said, sounding a tad wistful. “How did you manage that?”

 

“We were both unbonded and our paths crossed,” John said with a shrug. “I courted comically quickly and he, miraculously, went along with it. A year later and I'm still a bit dazed. Our bonding anniversary is the day after tomorrow, actually. Wedding anniversary in a few months.”

 

“Got any plans?” Arthur asked, still examining Silas with a look of wonder. “God, he's gorgeous.”

 

Silas took the opportunity to favor Arthur with his wide eyed stare of scrutiny before reaching out with one chubby hand. Arthur took it, looking chuffed as Silas gripped his finger.

 

“Yes he is,” John agreed. “And I figured I would take Silas off Sherlock's hands for a full day, let the madman do whatever he wanted without worrying about the baby.”

 

“That's it?” Nick asked incredulously.

 

“Well, fuck him over the table too,” John amended, putting a hand over Silas's ear as he cursed.

 

Evan laughed. “Jeez, I can't believe you have a pup. Out of all of us, I was convinced it would be me.”

 

“'Cause you're such a charmer,” Craig said, rolling his eyes. He downed the rest of his pint. “Anyone want more. Watson, you want a round?” 

 

“I'll stay sober,” John said, shaking his head. “I have to watch a baby.”

 

“Speaking of,” Brad started, looking the most concerned out of everyone present. “Are you sure you should be bringing out a baby to the pub?”

 

“That reminds me!” John exclaimed, handing Silas over to the utterly infatuated Arthur. The six foot five hulking mass of muscle looked like he would worship Silas, given half the chance. “I need to text Sherlock. He's still winning, but this will put me in the running. Arthur, smile for the camera.”

 

John took a picture of Arthur holding Silas in the middle of a pub. He sent it to Sherlock with the message:

 

**Your move. JW**

 

“Yes,” he said, turning to Brad. “It is horribly inappropriate, but Sherlock took him to a crime scene that involved severed hands. Now we're competing.”

 

John took Silas back just as he started receiving text after text on his mobile. He cradled his son one armed and scrolled through them. All of them said that strangers were not allowed to hold Silas ever. Under any circumstances. Ever.

 

“Afraid that the husband didn't appreciate you holding Silas,” John informed Arthur. “But here, what he doesn't know, won't hurt him.”

 

John passed Silas back to Arthur and handed the man a bottle a moment later. After a quick tutorial, Arthur was feeding Silas like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Conversation soon turned to other topics. John laughed and made bawdy jokes with the rest of them, turning quiet each time he glanced at Silas, comfortable with whoever wanted to hold him at the time.

 

And although by the end of the night all of his mates had had a turn with Silas, John hadn't taken his hand off the diaper bag.

 

The diaper bag that had his Sig hidden in a secret pocket Sherlock had sewn in himself.

 

John was still an alpha, after all.

 

He wasn't going to let anyone hold his child without having a loaded weapon at the ready.

 

….......

 

 

John had Silas in the carrier pouch-thing when he was gently but firmly ushered into an anonymous black car and driven to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

 

He hadn't seen Mycroft since the rather rushed wedding ten months prior, but he had the feeling that he was about to become reacquainted with his brother in law. He sincerely hoped he was about to. If he wasn't then he was being way too calm over the fact that he had his son had just been abducted.

 

The same pretty beta from last time met him outside the warehouse escorted him to the annoyingly posh looking man with an umbrella.

 

Yeah, time to introduce Mycroft to his nephew.

 

“Hi,” John said, making sure that Silas was secure in the papoose-thing. “It's been a while.”

 

“I'm aware,” Mycroft said, looking at John like he was a lesser being. “I've been keeping an eye on the situation, unfortunately I've spent the last nine months in America. Please forgive me for not checking up.”   
  


“I can't honestly say that I mind,” John said sincerely.

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“Is there a _reason_ you couldn't just come to the flat, or...” John was holding Silas very closely, the situation feeling hostile even though Sherlock had assured him that Mycroft would be mostly harmless towards Silas.

 

“I wanted to meet my nephew without Sherlock glaring at me, for starters,” Mycroft said mildly. “And I want to offer you an opportunity.”

 

“Is this the 'pay me to spy on Sherlock' bit? Because while I didn't let you get that far last time, my answer is still no. Thanks for not offering at the wedding, by the way. That would have lacked some tact.”

 

Mycroft looked surprised. “But I haven't even--”

 

“Yeah, Sherlock said you'd do it. He told me to take the money and feed you false information, but I have to say no on a principle thing.” John was getting irritated. All he wanted was a nice afternoon out with his baby. Sherlock had taken him up on the anniversary deal and was sleeping like the dead at the moment. Were he awake, he probably would have materialized by now, somehow already knowing that his brother had taken his husband and his son to a really shady warehouse in the middle of--

 

“Oh!” John cut off whatever Mycroft was starting to say. “A shady warehouse is a completely inappropriate place for a baby.”

 

“Well, I suppose so,” Mycroft said, sounding confused.

 

“Here, hold Silas, I need to take a picture.” John handed Silas to a very befuddled looking Mycroft and snapped a picture on his phone. “I won't send it yet. It's still his turn. But I'll save it for next time.”

 

“Should I ask what--” Mycroft gagged mid-speech as he caught a whiff of Silas's nappy.

 

“Yeah, babies do that,” John said ruefully. “I've got the things to change him, though. Don't worry.”

 

“Please don't change it in the back of the car,” Mycroft requested, handing Silas back quickly. John put him back in the carrier, bid his farewells, then changed a nappy in the back of Mycroft's car.

 

….......

 

Sherlock had Silas with him when Wiggins met his eyes across a crowded street. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment and the homeless man slunk off into the shadows. Without considering the fact that he was cradling a one month old child against his chest, he followed.

 

Wiggins was leaning against a skip at the mouth of a darkened alleyway. Sherlock stepped up to him, hugging his son close and trying to deduce his contact's purpose.

 

Wiggins was edgy, but not desperate for a hit. His clothes did not show recent wear or damage, he had not been involved in an altercation of some sort. No...he was upset about something, but on behalf of someone else.

  
“Who's dead?” Sherlock asked without preamble. Silas stuck his fist in his mouth.

 

“Messy Jess,” Wiggins said, wringing his hands. “Murdered, she was. Can't figure out why. Didn't deal, didn't use, didn't trespass onto anyone else's turf.”

 

“You want me to...what, avenge her? I'm hardly an archangel.”

 

“No. It's just...Suzy P. was killed last month. Real similar. Thought it was just a random thing, killing a homeless woman, cops don't really care all that much. But now Jess is gone and I was thinking that it might be a pattern and that it was, well...more up your street, yeah?”

 

“Right,” Sherlock sighed. He figured it was best to root out a potential serial killer before some of his more valuable informants were targeted. “Has the body been moved?”

 

“Nah, I started looking for you as soon as I found her. I thought about Suzy, see, and I figured best to let Mr. Holmes take a look before the cops sweep it aside.”

 

“Good job, Wiggins,” Sherlock praised. He adjusted his hold on Silas. “Lead the way.”

 

“No disrespect, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins said hesitantly. “But should you be bringing your baby to Jess's hideout? She wasn't called Messy Jess for nothing.”

 

“Oh! That reminds me!” Sherlock shifted Silas to one arm and reached for his mobile. “I need to take a picture.” Sherlock took a picture and sent it to John. “Now it's his turn.”

 

There was a response before Sherlock even had a chance to follow Wiggins. Sherlock swore at the picture of Mycroft holding a slightly younger Silas in the middle of a warehouse.

 

**Your turn again. JW**

 

….......

 

Silas was two and a half months old when he and Sherlock were kidnapped. The amateurs behind the attempt let Sherlock keep the diaper bag after Sherlock insisted that unless they wanted to deal with a screaming, smelly baby, they would give him access to formula and nappies. They didn't know that there was a handgun and an emergency mobile hidden in a secret pocket within the bag.

 

As soon as he was left (locked in a room, but untied so he could keep Silas from crying), Sherlock dug into the bag and pulled out the phone.

 

He took a picture and captioned it **Kidnapped. Try to beat it. SH** before sending it to John. Then he texted both him and Lestrade his location and the expected number of assailants. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers, picked Silas up from the small blanket Sherlock had laid out on the floor, sat down with his son in his arms and recited the alphabet while he waited.

 

Sherlock paused in his recitation as he felt the exact moment John read the text. Pure fear and panic assaulted Sherlock across the bond, too strong for him to block out. He did he best to project calm and comfort, but only managed to dull John's emotions slightly. Sherlock sighed and returned to the alphabet after reassuring Silas. “Don't worry, Dada's on his way.”

 

Speech _still_ proved tobe beyond Silas, aside from some basic sounds, but it helped to pass the time until there was the distinct sound of shouting outside the room in which he was being held.

 

He calmly pulled out the gun, keeping his left arm around Silas, thumbed off the safety, and held it to the door as one of his kidnappers unlocked it and threw it open.

 

Silas jumped at the noise, but didn't start crying. The child was used to much worse.

 

“Don't be an idiot,” Sherlock calmly told the man, pressing a kiss to Silas's wispy black hair. “I'm an omega. Threaten my child, and you will die. No one would even consider arresting me for it, and I can't say that I'm known for my morals. Your decision.”

 

The kidnapper ran away.

 

Sherlock packed up their things and was ready to go when John burst into the room. He didn't speak, he just crowded Sherlock and Silas against the back wall and breathed in their scent, wrapping his arms around Sherlock so that Silas was sandwiched in between them.

 

“Are you alright?” John finally managed, his voice rough.

 

“They were idiots. I have a bruise on my arm but otherwise both of us are completely fine. I didn't fight, not with Silas, and they weren't cruel.”

 

“Good,” John breathed, burying his nose in the crook of Silas's neck.

 

“Da?” Silas babbled, looking up at John in confusion. “Da?”

 

They both froze.

 

“Since it's months early for him to be speaking, that's probably just a random syllable that means nothing to him, but given the circumstances, let's just pretend that Silas said his first word.”

 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

 

“You're welcome, John.”

 

 

Silas got stuck on a certain syllable for a day.

 

“Da?” he inquired every time John left the room.

 

“Da!” he greeted, every time John returned.

 

“Dadadadadada,” he babbled, every time John held him in his lap.

 

Just when the proud parents were convinced that their son had grasped speech at two months old, Silas decided to return to other syllables again.

 

“Babafalaloo,” he cooed around his first. “GoyabalaaaAAAAAA,” he screeched when Sherlock tried to give him a bath.

 

The parents, still just as proud, accepted that perhaps speech was Still a bit much for them to expect from their infant.

 

But sometimes, after John kissed his baby boy goodnight, Silas would mutter a sleepy, “Da,” and slip into oblivion with a small smile on his face, knowing on the most basic levels that no matter what happened, Dada would always barge into the room and save everyone. That was just what Dada did.

 

….......

 

“I'm out of ideas,” John finally admitted when Silas was five months old.

 

“Dada?” Silas asked, looking up from his blocks. He had started using a few words the week before; a bit early, but Silas was a very intelligent baby.

 

“Papa beat me with the kidnapping thing months ago,” he sighed. “I can't think of anywhere I could take you that wouldn't be a direct risk to your health.”

 

“Papa no,” Silas said, throwing a block.

 

“I don't want him to win either,” John agreed. “But I honestly have nothing. I mean, you're getting too old. I'm afraid that something might actually mentally scar you.”

 

“Dada,” Silas said skeptically.

 

“I know, I know. I just feel like I'm supposed to be the moral one. Anywhere potentially dangerous or emotionally damaging is out of the question. So I'm trying to think less of a _where_ and more of a _who._ You've already got a picture with your Uncle Mycroft, so I need to think of someone else that Papa hates.”

 

“Papa yes.”

 

“Yes, your Papa does hate a lot of people,” John considered. “Unfortunately, most of them want to shoot Papa. That falls under the category of things that are not safe.”

 

“Dada.” Silas was looking at John liked he was missing something obvious.

  
“Who?”

 

“Dada!”

 

“Alright, I'm thinking.” John picked Silas up, ignoring the squeal of protest, and settled the baby in his lap.

 

Then it dawned on him.

 

“I know where to go!”

 

 

Anderson looked very confused when he answered the door.

 

“Watson? What are you doing here?”

 

“I can't explain,” John said, pushing into his house. “Just stand next to me and smile for the camera.”

 

Silas gave a big smile as the flash on John's phone went off. Anderson still had an utterly befuddled expression on his face.

 

“Thanks, you've been a great help,” John said, smiling widely. “I think I've just won.”

 

“You're crazier than the Freak,” Anderson breathed, as though that was a brand new discovery.

 

“Yup,” John agreed cheerfully. “Bye!”

 

 

John sent the picture attached to the message: **I'm waiting.**

 

Ten whole minutes passed before John received a reluctant **Conceded. SH**

 

John and Silas celebrated their victory for about thirty seconds before he stopped to wonder, for the first time during the competition, if he was a terrible parent.

 

….......

 

John was watching Silas sleep when Sherlock entered the nursery and wrapped his arms around his husband's waist.

 

“I can't believe you went to Anderson's house.”

 

“I won.”   
  
“But at what cost?”

 

“Silas was the one who suggested it.”

 

Sherlock pulled back, looking offended. “Why was Silas on _your_ team?”

 

“I told you winning genetics didn't make you the favorite.”

 

Sherlock looked like he was on the edge of an epic strop when something flickered in his expression.

 

“What?” John challenged, crossing his arms.

 

“You win this time,” Sherlock said, an odd tone to his voice. “But I'll be the next one's favorite. Wait and see.”

 

“Bit early to start thinking about that, isn't it?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and fidgeted.

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock smiled hesitantly. “Admittedly, we still have seven and a half months, but I would say it isn't too early to start thinking about these things.”

 

John most certainly did _not_ pass out. He simply decided to get reacquainted with the effects of gravity and suddenly crash to the floor.

 

“JOHN?!”

 

“DADA?!”

 

John blinked several times and looked up at his concerned mate.

 

“We're having another baby?”   
  


“I was just at the doctor's,” Sherlock confirmed, sounding more like a soldier with orders of deployment than a proudly expecting parent. “We have a 'whoops' baby.”

 

“For Christ's sake, you've had one heat since Silas was born.”

 

“The pill isn't one hundred percent effective. But it would have messed up my heat, keep it from ending when I conceived.”

 

“I didn't even know that was a side effect.” He got back to his feet and something registered. “Wait, you went to the doctor alone?”   
  


Sherlock shifted, looking uncomfortable. “I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily. Or get your hopes up. Honestly, I wasn't sure how you would react. Considering you fainted--”

 

“I did _not_ faint,” John insisted, shaking his head. “So you're six weeks?”

 

“Yup,” Sherlock said, popping the 'p.'

 

“Dada! Papa!” Silas whined, annoyed that he had been ignored for so long.

 

John turned to his son and lifted him out of the crib. “I'm afraid you won't be the only baby in this flat any longer,” John sighed. “You'll be just over a year old when he or she is born. You probably won't remember being the only baby.”

 

Silas made a scoffing sound, as though it was ridiculous that his memory wasn't already fully developed.

 

“Hm,” John hummed in disagreement. “Going to be awake now? Fine then, let's play with your blocks and let Papa take a nap. He's going to need to take very good care of himself from now on.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please avoid coddling me further, John.”   
  


“Can't help it,” John said, pressing a kiss to his mate's cheek. “Sustenance and Protection are courting instincts, after all.”

 

“No need to court me when I'm yours.”

 

“Yeah, but I like working for it now and again. Take a nap, love. I've got this baby. You focus on taking care of the next one.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was it! Thank you so much for reading to the end! This has been a ton of fun and the response has been much better than I would have imagined. So, thank you so much! 
> 
> I plan to turn this into a series, so keep an eye out for a follow up one-shot or a few chapters of fluff. I've grown rather fond of this AU. 
> 
> You can still follow me at emptycel.tumblr.com if you like my writing and you want updates, excerpts, and ficlets. It's not my recreational account, so I don't reblog anything. It's just to answer questions and keep everyone up to date. :) 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR THE COMMENTS AND THE KUDOS! I LOVE YOU ALL~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'The Six Steps of Courtship'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174199) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)
  * [[Podfic] The Six Steps of Courtship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740317) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)




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